He promptly forgot whatever he meant to say because she grabbed his neck cloth and pulled his head to hers to cover his lips with her own.
Beau was startled by the rush of desire that swept through him like an inferno. He wanted to hold her and never let go, to drink of her lips forever. But he couldn’t move. Some last sensible bit of him dug its invisible hands into his frayed self-control. Her lips were soft, and he groaned as his hand spanned her waist. She felt so small in his hold, so delicate, and he felt a protectiveness build within him, a desire to shield her from the world and all that might harm her. Their breath mixed in the half-darkened room and he was overcome by the quiet intimacy of the fire crackling in the hearth and the feel of her trembling body against his as the heat of their shared passion grew.
Her gentle lips released him, and she spun away, offering a dozen silly apologies. And all he could do was stand there and dream foolishly of where that kiss could have led and the potent magic that seemed trapped within Philippa. The magic he feared to pursue, let alone believe in.
“I am terribly sorry, Mr. Boudreaux… I… I have no excuse. I was not myself… I… thought… I don’t know what I thought…”
He caught her arm and spun her back into his embrace. She gasped as she collided with him. Her palms settled on his chest as he held her close.
“One should never apologize for a kiss as sweet as that,” he said as gently as he could.
“Never?”
“Never.” He lowered his head to whisper.
“But it’s inappropriate of me to…”
“Inappropriate? Perhaps. But these are trying times for you, and such stresses find odd ways of coming out. Kept bottled up, it no doubt would be harmful.”
“But I am just a maid and you…”
“Nonsense. A release is healthy, and I am more than willing to oblige, within reason.” Then he added in a seductive purr. “But be warned, each time you steal one from me, I will steal one in return. Unless you wish for me to let you go?”
“One stolen kiss,” she whispered back in agreement. That was all he needed. He held her tight in his arms, one hand exploring the hollow of her back, the green satin gown was smooth beneath his wandering fingers. Philippa relaxed into him and her arms draped around his neck as he claimed her mouth with an urgency that stunned her.
It was as though he’d never kissed a woman before, as if this taste of exquisite passion was his very first. He worried he would be drunk upon it. He licked the seam of her lips and they parted for him. When he flicked his tongue against hers, she became almost boneless in his arms. It seemed as if the kiss had the same effect on her and a gloriously uncontrollable force was sweeping through them both. He felt that the mere touch of her would make him catch fire, that the sight or scent of her would make him mindless with need.
I should leave this room… but I can’t. The thought was soon buried by others infinitely more wonderful. He softened his kiss, letting his mouth dance over hers in a whisper and it made him shiver straight down to his soul. His mind filled with dreams of her, carrying her to the bed, stripping her down to her skin and covering every inch with kisses.
She was all that he could think about, all he could focus on. There was nothing outside this room. Nothing beyond this kiss. He surrendered to her, to the feel of her hands in his hair. Her mouth nibbled at his lips as she taught herself to kiss him in a dozen different ways.
I have died… He thought. I have died and this is some secret place in heaven that she is sharing with me.
“Love is an ever burning fire, a glimpse of heaven. To lose it is to die…” His father’s words came back to him across the decades, a haunting reminder of the devastating power of love.
And just like that… His father’s face intruded upon the sweetness. The solemn look of heartbreak as his father left to meet his fate. His mother’s sobs as she read his final letter. The agony in St. Albans eyes as he spoke of his deceased daughter.
To lose it is to die…
All those lives were lost or destroyed by love.
Beau jerked back from Philippa. Her arms fell to her sides as she panted, her eyes over bright.
“That…that should be sufficient. Don’t you think?” He tried to act casual, as if he’d simply been helping relieve her of the fears she carried. “I…should go.”
He all but fled the room, but it was too late. He would never forget Philippa’s taste, or the way she responded to his kiss. He could almost hear the bells ringing out his doom. Each heavy bong screamed “run…run…” But he feared he wouldn’t escape whatever fate held in store for him, and that terrified him most of all.
* * *
Philippa raised her fingertips to her lips and fought off tears. What had she done? She’d been a fool. A foolish girl. Needing to be comforted, she’d thrown herself at Beau, just to feel his arms around her and then she’d kissed him.
But when he kissed her back, she’d realized her grave mistake in judgment. What he’d done, what he’d shown her in that second kiss, was like nothing she’d ever dreamed. It was not the kiss of a man trying to take what she didn’t wish to give. Nor was it a dry chaste kiss of a father or friend. She had felt him, his heart and soul in those few moments, and she sensed he’d meant to let her see that part of him.
As he fled the room, she tried to regain her breath and coiled her loose hair over one shoulder as the tremors inside her finally subsided.
It was clear kissing her had upset him. He might be one of those men who preferred not to romance servants. If that was the case, she wished she hadn’t just thrown herself at him like some ninny. She could have no expectations from him. He was a gentleman, the son of a French Marquis.
And I am only the upstairs maid he rescued as a favor to my master.
The was first time she’d tasted something more, something she never thought she wanted, and now she would never get it, at least not in an honorable way.
Philippa moved to the bed and brushed her fingers over the fine sapphire blue coverlet. When she looked up at the painting of Leda and the swan, she saw something of herself in the woman holding a transformed God close to her heart. One could only hold onto that irresistible mythical being for so long before they had to let go. Gods and mortals could never be together, just as gentleman and servants could not.
She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. That night she was plagued with dreams. Dreams of a woman whispering her name and the furious threatening voice of a stranger… A stranger that seemed all too familiar now.
Lord Monmouth was haunting her, even in her sleep.
Chapter 9
Beau stood in the center of his bedchamber down the hall from Philippa. He held his breath held as he replayed the kisses that never should have happened, yet he could not bring himself to regret.
His young valet, Freddie, was muttering about the quality of the borrowed shirt that belong to Mr. Craddock. But the valet’s mutterings went ignored as Beau stared bare chested out the windows facing the gardens behind his home. He couldn’t seem to shake the vision of kissing Philippa back out of his head. He’d encouraged the kiss, and the sweetness of it all had left him in a wonderful daze. It was as though he’d glimpsed an endless garden and the sweet smell of an eternal spring had filled him until he became almost drunk upon her kisses.
Had kissing any of his mistresses ever been like that? No. Why was this woman so different? Perhaps it was those gray eyes of hers which seemed to be as pure as silver or as mercurial as winter storms. It was one more part of the mystery of her. Yet he feared she would pull him deeper and deeper with every kiss as he tried to uncover those mysteries. The magic she wove around them would not fade over time. The more he came to know Philippa, the more he wanted her. It would never be enough.
“Sir?” Freddie cut in.
“Yes?” He turned to face his valet, who held up his waistcoat and pushed his finger through the bullet hole.
“I don’t think I can salvage this, sir.�
�� the valet confessed.
“That’s all right, Freddie. Just fetch me a new one”
“Of course, sir.” Freddie folded the up destroyed waistcoat and set it aside before he laid out a fresh pair of buckskin trousers, shirt and pale blue satin waistcoat.
Once he’d dressed and pulled his coat and top-boots on, Freddie helped him tie his simple yet elegant cravat.
“Taking a bullet…” Freddie muttered. “Ruining clothes, bringing home strange young ladies… What the devil will be next?”
The young man pursed his lips as he ran a brush over Beau’s coat and then nodded to himself, finally satisfied with Beau’s appearance. Freddie’s father had been Beau’s valet for nearly ten years and had only recently retired. Poor Freddie, while just as dedicated to his job as his father had been, was not quite so used to the unpredictability of a bachelor’s existence.
“I take it you do not approve of my adventures, Freddie?” He couldn’t resist teasing the young man.
“Certainly not at the cost of one’s wardrobe,” the valet said flatly. “Am I to be cleaning blood out of your waistcoats from duels next?” This last was muttered but Beau still heard it.
“Not to worry, Freddie, I have not dueled in at least six months.”
The young valet’s eyes flashed, and Beau chuckled as the young man continued to fuss with his coat.
“What’s the talk downstairs?” Beau asked.
“The talk?”
“Yes, about my ward.” He was curious to see if the rest of his staff had heard Stoddard and Gronow’s story.
The valet did not answer. He turned away and focused on sorting Beau’s collection of snuff boxes inside a large wooden box with a glass lid. Beau walked over and gently pressed the lid down, removing the distraction from his valet.
“Freddie…”
“It’s not for me to… I don’t think you would wish to hear, sir.”
“That bad, eh?” Beau chuckled. “Well, out with it.”
“They believe she’s a mistress, a new one. Some say you’ve run through all the opera singers and ballet dancers and now you’ve gone searching for women in the country.”
“Goodness…that does sound bad.” Beau was torn between laughing and shaking his head.
“I don’t agree,” Freddie continued quickly. “With what they are saying, I mean.”
“I wouldn’t hold it against you if you did.” Beau patted the young man’s shoulder. “Now fetch my hat. I have a call to pay this afternoon.”
Freddie presented Beau’s top hat to him as he left his bedchamber. He went to Philippa’s room and eased the door open. It was quiet and dark, except for the fire in the hearth. Louisa, the maid Mrs. Gronow had assigned, must have added in fresh logs.
Beau searched the room and found Philippa in bed, asleep. He set his hat down outside the door, then quickly tiptoed into the room and retrieved a spare blanket from a tall wardrobe. He unfolded the blanket and covered her with it.
“I made a promise to keep you safe, even from me,” he said, too softly to wake her. He left the room and retrieved his hat, then told Stoddard his destination.
In a matter of minutes, he stood at the threshold of St. Albans’s home with his hand poised over the door’s knocker. He drew a deep breath and lifted the brass ring. The duke’s butler, Mr. Jarvis, answered.
“Is His Grace in?”
The butler smiled. “For you, sir? Always.” Jarvis stepped back and allowed Beau inside the palatial home. Beau passed his hat to the nearest footman.
“His Grace is in the library,” the butler informed him.
“Thank you, Jarvis.”
Beau went up the white marble stairs and down a long quarter until he reached the expansive library of the Duke of St. Albans. The duke was seated at a reading table with a quizzing glass held up to one eye as he peered at the text. He cursed to himself and reached for a pair of spectacles, tucking the quizzing glass back into his pocket. Then he nested the spectacles over his nose and examined the book more closely.
“Your Grace,” Beau said softly. The duke glanced up and his concentrating frown dissipated.
“Ah, my boy, what brings you by?”
“I wished to ask you something.”
“Ask away, my boy. I was only reading. Or trying to.”
“Anything worth recommending?” Beau asked as he examined the reading table.
“Keats. You know how much I love the fellow.”
Beau did indeed. As a younger man, he’d had trouble dealing with the death of his mother. St. Albans had sat with him out by the lake and recited Keats’s “Ode on Melancholy” and it had given him a new perspective on the world around him.
“But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies.”
Those words had given him some peace in the second set of dark days that Beau had faced. He owed so much to St. Albans, and here he was about to cause more pain.
“I’ve been thinking about Albina,” Beau said.
The duke closed his book and removed his reading spectacles. “Albina? Why?”
“May I see her portrait again?” Beau had to be sure the resemblance between her and Philippa Wilson was not something he’d imagined.
The duke, clearly curious, led him to the portrait gallery. They stood silently before it. Beau’s heart raced as he took in the details of the woman trapped within the oils and compared them to Philippa. She could have been an identical twin to the woman in the portrait. Any differences between them were so minute they were not worth mentioning.
“Why are you here?” The duke asked.
“To see you,” Beau replied.
The duke touched his shoulder, pulling Beau’s focus away from the painting.
“No, why are you here?” St. Albans emphasized with a nod toward Albina’s portrait.
Beau could feel the eyes of the dead woman on him. Her gaze from the past was frozen in time upon the canvas, yet no less powerful than when the portrait artist had painted her.
“Best if I do not talk about it. The last thing I wish to do is cause you pain, Your Grace,” Beau said. “And I believe my reason for coming here would do so.”
His old friend glanced between him and the painting. “It has something to do with Albina?”
“Not directly, but yes.” The resemblance was beyond uncanny. No wonder Lord Monmouth had reacted so violently to seeing Philippa. She was a mirror for Albina.
The duke met his gaze with a serenity Beau hadn’t expected. “My boy, I doubt there is much anyone can do to add to my pain.”
“Then I shall tell you a story,” Beau began, still uncertain this was the right thing to do.
“I’m the one who usually tells the stories,” St. Albans joked, but Beau had no humor left in him
“It begins with an upstairs maid who had an unexpected and dangerous meeting with an earl…”
After he had told St. Albans the details of Philippa’s misadventures, the duke stroked his chin. “So, my son-in-law tried to strangle this poor girl?”
“Yes.” Beau forced his gaze to stay away from Albina’s portrait.
“But you have no idea why?”
“Theories only, with no facts to support them. Is it a possibility that Albina’s death might not have been an accident? I think perhaps the maid reminded Monmouth of your daughter.”
“Possible? I suppose…I didn’t arrive in time to see her except to attend the funeral. Monmouth allowed only a quick ceremony, and no one examined the body that I was aware of. I heard only from him that she’d bled out during childbirth.” St. Albans frowned. “You think he might have killed my daughter and somehow this girl brought up memories from the past?”
Beau nodded. “It could explain Monmouth’s unexpected attack as a crime of passion. Then once he realized his mistake, he let rational planning prevail and hired Sommers to obtain the girl. But I stopped Sommers from fulfilling his plans. Sommers must be equally as desperate to kill her because he shot me in the bloody back to stop our departure.”
“What?” St. Albans stared at him in horror. “You were shot?” His eyes darted over Beau, seeking evidence of any injury. It amused Beau that everyone reacted so wildly to that announcement.
“’Tis only a scratch. A doctor patched me up.”
“Bullets don’t leave scratches, my boy.” St. Albans muttered. “I took a bloody bullet in my leg at Waterloo. Luckily, it was easily removed, but I limped on a cane for nearly five years until I managed to push myself to walk unaided.”
“I had no idea, Your Grace.”
“There’s much about my past you do not know, but those are discussions for another day. Now, what are your theories about the girl?”
Beau steadied himself but perhaps if he dealt the blow quickly that would be best. “We know only that the lady is a threat to Monmouth.”
“But how? I cannot see how a maid Cornelius doesn’t know would upset him to the point of attempted murder.”
“Of that I have no idea, but the maid looks exactly like your daughter.”
“But Albina is…”
“Yes, gone.” Beau dragged a hand through his hair. “Did your late wife have any relatives? Perhaps the lady has some blood relation?”
“No. My wife had no other relations still living. No distant cousins even. I’m still confused. Beau, this girl, she cannot really look like Albina, can she?”
“That’s why I came here. I needed to see the portrait again. I was hoping I’d imagined the physical resemblance, but I haven’t.”
St. Albans stroked his chin. “Cornelius has a guilty conscience, perhaps?”
“I’d wondered something similar. Their resemblance may be a coincidence, yet Monmouth might have thought it was Albina’s spirit come back to haunt him.”
Boudreaux’s Lady Page 10
