Scandal Wears Satin

by Loretta Chase

  He dragged up her skirts and petticoats and murmured in French that she was impossible, intolerable, and he wanted nothing to do with her.

  “I’m leaving and I’ll never come back,” he said as he knelt between her legs.

  “Good,” she gasped. “I can’t wait to see the last of you.”

  He slid his fingers under the bottom of her corset, and up past the slit of her drawers to the tape at the waist. “I won’t miss you at all,” he said as he untied them.

  “I’ve forgotten you already,” she said.

  He pulled down her drawers, slowly, down past her knees. Her garters were the same pink as the dress. He untied them. He caressed her velvety thighs, moving upward to the soft mound. That beautiful all-woman place glinted gold in the gaslight. When he put his hand there, she sucked in her breath. “Ah, that’s mine,” he said.

  “Never,” she said.

  “Oh, yes, madame,” he said. “Oh, yes, Miss Noirot. Sophy.”

  Whoever you are.

  He stroked her, and she quivered and a sibilant sound escaped her. It sounded like yes.

  She moved against his hand, encouraging, seeking more. “Stupid man,” she said.

  “Yet I know exactly what to do in this situation,” he said, and it was all he could do to put the words together. She was damp, ready. His mind was so thick that he could barely speak. It was scarcely speech, hoarse and breathless. But hers was no better. They were heated, maddened. Still, he caressed and pleasured her. It was a kind of punishment for him. Yet he liked it, too, so much: the way she moved and the way her breath caught at each jolt of pleasure, and the way her breath came faster and harsher as he stroked her.

  Her warm hand closed over his cock and she slid her wicked fingers along his length. Her hold was firm, possessive. “Now,” she said, and it was a little kitten growl. A tiger kitten. “Now, my lord, you awful man.”

  He felt the blood racing through his veins, with the same flooding urgency that drove him to fight and kept him fighting. Instinctive. Unthinking. He entered her, and laughed—for the rush of sensation, for the triumph. He grasped her bottom, her beautiful bottom, and thrust again and again. No finesse. Only heat. Desire. Possession.

  Mine, with every thrust. Mine. Mine. Mine.

  She took him in the same way: primitive, simple, unfeigned, greedy desire. She took him and gave herself to him unstintingly and unsparingly. They fought a lovers’ battle, a sort of war that wasn’t a war at all. Even while the rhythm of their coupling built and built, faster and fiercer, the world was darkening and softening and gentling. Thought drifted far away. There was nothing but now.

  He felt her hands tighten about his upper arms, and he felt the tremors as she reached her peak. And then she was rising up, dragging her hands through his hair as she kissed him. He tasted something in that kiss and in his answer or the combination. He had no words for it. The sensation was overpowering and white-hot and new. Then she was pulling him down to her, and he was kissing her, like a man starved, and all the world was this, he and she, joined. The world heaved, shuddered, exploded.

  He lay sprawled on top of her, and Sophy was sprawled, too, in a most undignified manner, one leg dangling over the edge of the sofa, her stocking drooping about her ankle.

  He hadn’t even taken her shoes off.

  It had been such great fun and so . . . exciting. So much feeling: sensations that nothing else in one’s life offered.

  She lay for a moment while her breathing quieted, relishing his weight and his warmth and the indescribably wonderful feeling of a man’s body—this man’s body—entwined with hers.

  For this moment, she simply indulged herself, pretending she was Madame, who need think only of the pleasures of the moment. Madame, who had no responsibility but to enjoy herself, to lure men into her nets and revel in her power over them and the pleasure they could give her.

  His weight shifted. “Well, then, let that be a lesson to you,” he said.

  She indulged herself again, running her fingers through his thick, black hair. He turned his head into her hand, like a dog wanting his ears scratched. He was a man of great sensuality, she realized—and that ought to come as no shock. He was so utterly physical, so fully at home and confident in his body.

  “Are you not so crazy now?” she said.

  “My mind is wonderfully clear,” he said.

  In a smooth series of movements, he eased his long body up and over her and off the sofa entirely. He bent and kissed her knee, then put her clothes to rights, as easily as though he’d been dressing and undressing her for years. She knew it was only practice, years of practice with women, but it felt like more than that. There was a familiarity, as though they’d been lovers forever. It was almost . . . domestic.

  This was what it was like for her sister and Clevedon. They were together and their lives had joined and they had moments like this, all the time. They had breakfast together.

  Longmore pulled up his trousers and fastened them.

  “You’re not going to tell me to go to sleep?” she said.

  “For some reason I don’t feel at all sleepy,” he said.

  “Then I can tell you what I accomplished this evening, and you’ll listen without acting like a crazy, jealous man,” she said.

  “Can’t think what the devil I was jealous about,” he said. He moved away to the tray the servants had brought him. He filled a glass for himself and one for her and brought them back. After giving her a glass, he straightened and stood back a pace. He drank. He closed his eyes.

  She waited.

  He opened his eyes and turned their gaze upon her bodice. “That,” he said. “You at dinner, and that oily lecher ogling your splendid breasts.”

  She drank in the words as though they’d been the most precious compliment or even a declaration of eternal devotion. Yes, he’d fondled and caressed and suckled—but “splendid,” coming from him, was practically poetry. He was not the sort of man who flattered women. He was so straightforward.

  And she was so . . . not.

  “Marcelline cut it especially low on purpose,” she said. “We needed to give him something tempting to look at while I set out my other temptations: my vast wealth, which I spoke of so casually. And my loneliness. And how much I missed having a husband.”

  She watched understanding dawn in his dark eyes. He sat down sideways on the edge of the sofa, his hip against hers.

  Really, he was not nearly as unintelligent as people thought.

  “You see?” she said. “You see why I didn’t have to deal with his trying to seduce me?”

  “You tempted him with a bigger prize,” he said. “You made him think he was dreaming too small. He thought only to bed you—but you tempted him to play for higher stakes.”

  “Madame’s fortune rivals the Duke of Clevedon’s, according to the Spectacle,” she said.

  “Makes Clara’s dowry seem paltry,” he said. He sipped his wine thoughtfully. “Still, a bird in the hand, you know.”

  “I know. That’s why I had to make myself so irresistibly delicious.”

  “And a fine job you did.” His voice had deepened. He took her wineglass from her and set it and his down on the floor. He leaned in and kissed the top of her breast. Then the top of the other one. Then he drew his tongue along the neckline.

  She sucked in air. His tongue was doing strange things at the place where her neckline met the shoulder of her dress and those things were stirring restless feelings in the pit of her belly. She grabbed a fistful of his hair. “We have only a few days left,” she said.

  He lifted his head and regarded her with half-closed eyes. “We know what we need to do,” he said.

  “We have a general plan,” she said. “We need to refine it, in light of recent developments.”

  His eyes were like midnight, and she saw the special glint there, like some devil star.

  “Let’s do that later,” he said.

  Later

  This time, not being ne
arly so mentally unbalanced or in so great a hurry, Longmore had carried her through the more public apartments to the privacy of her bedroom.

  This time, after the lovemaking, he did sleep. He might have slept on until afternoon if he hadn’t rolled toward the place where she was supposed to be and found cold bedclothes instead of warm Sophy.

  After feeling around, he opened his eyes and came up on his elbows and looked past the bed curtains. Early-morning light filtered into the room through half-drawn window curtains. The light showed no signs of Sophy.

  He rose and, deciding that stalking about the place naked probably wasn’t intelligent, he pulled on his trousers. He had no idea who else was about at this hour, but while some maids had seen everything and were not easily shaken, others could screech and carry on. That might bring in busybody hotel officials. What Madame didn’t need was to get embroiled in a scandal with the Marchioness of Warford’s eldest son.

  He found Sophy at a writing table in the sitting room, scratching away.

  “What the devil are you doing?” he said. “The sun’s barely up.”

  “I need to write my report for today’s Spectacle,” she said. “It won’t be much good if Tom can’t print it today, and he should have had it half an hour ago.” She set down her pen. “But it’s done, and I’ll only be a minute sending it off. We have a little system for getting these things to the Spectacle undetected.”

  She’d donned a frothy dressing gown over what appeared to be an equally frivolous nightdress, judging by the ruffles peeping out from under the dressing gown’s hem.

  She went out of the room in a cloud of fluttering ribbons and muslin.

  He remembered her jumping about, her nightdress on fire, that night of the storm, when they’d stopped at the inn. He felt a tightening in his chest, and a stab. He felt happy and upset at the same time.

  He walked to a window and looked out, trying to ignore the sensations.

  Some few minutes later, she returned, brow knit, carrying a letter.

  “This is interesting,” she said. “It was delivered only a moment ago.”

  He glanced at the letter, looked away, then came back for a closer study. The handwriting seemed familiar. Hadn’t he seen it recently?

  She sat at the writing table and broke open the seal.

  Yesterday. That’s when he’d seen it. He’d crushed the message in his hand and thrown it away.

  She scanned the letter and smiled. “Oh, my,” she said. She read it again, this time more slowly, giggling now and again.

  Longmore stood and waited, the remnants of his good humor slipping away.

  “Is it a great secret?” he said. “Or may I share the joke?”

  She held out the letter to him. He didn’t take it, only glanced at the bottom, at the signature. Adderley. As he’d thought.

  “Do you want to read it?” she said. “Or shall I? I do think it needs to be read aloud for the full effect.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Read it.”

  “ ‘My dear Madame de Veirrion,’ ” she read, “ ‘I find I cannot sleep. Indeed, I cannot rest at all. My heart is too full for rest, my mind too agitated. To sleep were impossible until I had unburdened my heart to the celestial creature who has stolen it utterly. E’en now I hear your voice, like a haunting melody. I close my eyes and all I can see is your beautiful—”

  “Breasts,” Longmore said. “All he can see is your beautiful breasts, the oily blackguard.”

  “Eyes,” she said, stabbing the place with her finger. “My beautiful eyes, ‘like twin oceans, of fathomless depths and mystery.’ ”

  “I’m going to be ill,” he said.

  “Shall I stop reading?” she said.

  “No, go on. I have an irresistible need to hear it, rather in the way one can’t help gaping at a carriage accident, or bodies being carried out after a building collapse.”

  “ ‘I’d always thought myself immune to love’s pangs and raptures,’ ” she read on. “ ‘I’d always believed those feelings were for schoolboys and poets. Then I met you. Please forgive me, madame—I hardly know what I write. I’m distraught, confused. I know only that I couldn’t rest without penning some few words, however inept’—”

  “He got that part right, at any rate.”

  “—‘some few words, however inept, to express my feelings. You are so kind, so understanding, my very dear lady. Pray be kind to this, your humble supplicant.’ ”

  “What a ghastly assault to commit upon an innocent piece of paper.”

  She giggled again and went on, “ ‘Only send me a word or two, enough to keep me from utter despair. A little hope is all I seek—let me know when I may see you again. In pity’s sake, pray make it soon. I am yours, devotedly, A.’ ”

  She looked up at Longmore. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she said.

  “Wonderful? Have you taken leave of your wits? The effrontery of the fellow! Plague take him, I knew he was low, but each day proves my estimation grossly flattering. This passes anything! Engaged to my sister and making love to my—my—what-you-call-it.”

  Her eyebrows went up. “Your what-you-call-it?”

  He frowned at her. “You know what I mean.”

  “Your ‘aunt,’ perhaps.”

  “Not an aunt, Sophy. Not that. Never that.” How could she be so thick? “Nothing like that.”

  “What then?”

  He waved a hand at the letter. “He knows I’ve been escorting you everywhere. He knows I’ve an interest. A gentleman doesn’t poach on another’s preserve.”

  “Will you listen to yourself?” she said. “You act as though Madame is real. This is all a sham, remember?”

  “That isn’t the point.”

  “It’s the entire point,” she said.

  “The point is, he has no damn business writing you love letters,” he said. “If I can dignify this turgid spew by that title, which I’m sorry to do, as it gives love letters a bad name.”

  “Longmore.”

  “I thought I was Harry by now,” he said. “Or is that a sham, too?”

  “Which part?” she said. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  He wasn’t sure what he meant, either. He stared at the letter in her hand. Her hands, her soft hands. She’d raked her hands through his hair, and made as if to strangle him and held his cock and told him she wanted him.

  “How dare he?” he said. “How dare the cur be haunted by your voice? How dare he presume to be distraught and confused? He doesn’t even know you. It’s a damned insult.”

  She was studying him, her head tipped to one side, thinking, thinking, trying to make him out. “What is the matter with you?” she said. “He’s only saying those things.”

  “Yes,” he said. “He’s saying the things women want to hear. That we’re thinking about their eyes, not their breasts. Their voices, not the place between their legs. Their conversation, not the quickest way to get under their skirts.”

  “But he’s trying to get me into bed,” she said. “That’s the point. What on earth has possessed you? You said your mind was clear. I thought we’d settled that matter. How many times do we have to fornicate for you to—”

  “We don’t fornicate,” he said between his teeth.

  “It isn’t ladylike to say the shorter word,” she said.

  “We make love,” he said.

  He snatched the letter from her, crushed it into a tight little ball, and threw it across the room. “You and I. We make love. There’s a difference. Worlds of difference. And he has no business making love to you in his illiterate, idiotish letter. And just because I don’t write you illiterate, idiotish letters that make one gag—and just because I don’t say . . .”

  He trailed off, aware of the feeling, the strange feeling, of being stabbed and of being happy and wretched at the same time.

  He looked at her for a long time.

  Her hands were folded. She had ink on her fingers again. But not on her face this time. She watched him so intently, h
er eyes piercing, trying to bore into his thick, so very thick skull, trying to understand what he scarcely understood himself.

  “Just because I don’t say . . .”

  He walked back to the bedroom.

  She followed him.

  He collected his garments from the floor and everywhere else they’d landed, flung them in the general vicinity of one of the room’s three chairs, and started to dress. In a growing, increasingly taut silence.

  Finally, “It’s a sham,” she said. “You’re not used to pretending, and it’s troubling you and making you . . . disoriented.”

  He pulled on his shirt, unbuttoned his trousers, and stuffed the shirt inside.

  “The trick is to believe it while you do it,” she said, “but to step back into yourself as soon as you’re off stage.”

  He pulled on his waistcoat and buttoned it. He sat and put on his stockings and shoes.

  “He’s playing into our hands,” she said.

  He stood, took his neckcloth off the back of the chair, and threw it round his neck. He knotted it quickly, in a fashion that would give his valet a seizure.

  “Adderley’s the pigeon,” she said. “He’s the dupe. He’s the mark. It isn’t real.”

  He twisted himself into his coat. “Yes, it is,” he said.

  “No, it—”

  “Yes, it is,” he said. “You and I: That’s real. I love you.”

  He heard her quick, sharp inhalation.

  “That’s my trouble, imbecile me,” he said. “I love you.”

  She stood very still, for once—for once—too shocked to pretend she wasn’t, too shocked for the tell-nothing face. Her blue eyes were enormous, a great, endless surprise.

  He bent and kissed her, full on the lips. “I’m going now,” he said. “This is much too shocking. I need to—drink, I believe. Or fight. Something. I love you. That’s what it is. That’s what’s happened. Yes.”

  He turned away and shook his head. Then he laughed and went out.

  Sophy stared at the door he’d gone out of.

  “That didn’t happen,” she whispered. “I imagined it.”

  Her gaze traveled the room, now bereft of all signs of him.