by Brooke, Meg
“Thank you.”
“It was nothing. But I will tell you something, Charles,” Stowe went on, his voice suddenly very grave. “Cynthia Endersby is the nearest thing my wife has to a sister, and she has not had an easy life. She deserves happiness more than almost any other woman I know. If you break her heart, I will be the next in line after Leo to thrash you, Spitzer’s protégé or not.”
For a moment Charles considered asking what Stowe knew of Cynthia’s troubles, but then he thought the better of it. He would have to trust her to tell him in her own time. He drained the last of his port and said, “Shall we join the ladies?”
It was nearly midnight when the carriage pulled up in front of the Endersby townhouse. Charles got out to see Cynthia to the door, looking around for the Rat but knowing that just because he didn’t see him didn’t mean he wasn’t there.
As he took her arm to escort her up the stairs, she said so softly that he almost didn’t hear it, “I’ve changed my mind about tonight. Come to the back door at two.” He nodded silently and wished her good night. He didn’t hear a word Imogen said the whole way home.
FOURTEEN
What on earth had she been thinking? Cynthia asked herself that question over and over again as she allowed Ellen to prepare her for bed, as she dismissed her for the night, as she climbed beneath the covers. But Clarissa’s words had been echoing in her mind the whole evening. There’s only one way to find out.
She meant to. She was a learned woman, perhaps better educated than any other woman in England, but in one area her education was sorely lacking. She had read every book in her father’s library and nearly every book in Clarissa’s father’s. There were books on history and philosophy and science and anatomy, and she had spent hours digesting and discussing each other them with her father. There were medical texts that spelled out very clearly the things that happened between men and women in the privacy of the bedroom. But none of those books had spoken of passion, of the way her heart beat when Charles smiled at her and kissed her neck. None of those books had said anything about the need she felt, the longing that had been wrapped like a fist around her heart since that moment when his breath had brushed her ear on the dance floor. When she made herself acknowledge it, she realized that she had the perfect opportunity before her. Even if he didn’t want her at the end of the week, after she had told him the truth, and even if she decided to refuse him if he did still want her, she would know. She would understand that faraway expression that had suddenly come over Clarissa’s face when she had spoken of the passion she shared with her husband. Cynthia tried to tell herself that it was the knowledge she wanted, that her purpose was entirely academic. She did not make a very convincing argument, but as she sat there in her room, counting the minutes until he would arrive, she found that she didn’t care. This was an experience for which her education had never prepared her, and so it was an adventure, something she had always been denied. Her father had wanted her to be liberated and enlightened, of course, but always safely within his control.
He was not here now to tell her no. He was not here to call her a whore. And Cynthia didn’t feel like one. She meant to give herself freely to Charles, and she knew that it would be an experience she would never forget.
At two minutes to two, she slipped out of bed and into her wrapper. On bare feet, she padded down the stairs and into the dark hallway. The door at the back of the house led out into a small garden surrounded by a low wall. Through the narrow window overlooking the yard she saw a shadowy figure vault easily over the wall and glide stealthily through the darkness. It was him. She knew his walk. She opened the door to him and he slid inside, his coat radiating cold into the narrow space.
Before she could say a word he kissed her, his lips and cheeks still chilled. “I walked all the way from the corner of Wimpole Street,” he whispered in her ear. So that was why he was so cold.
“Come upstairs,” she replied.
He followed her through the darkened house. The servant’s quarters were two floors above her room, and she knew there was no danger of them hearing. Even if they did, she trusted Ellen and Mallory. The others would defer to them.
When she had closed the door to her room, she froze, realizing that she had no idea what to do next. But he crossed the room in two great strides and took her in his arms, and her nervousness began to fade. He slid his hands under her wrapper. “You’re so warm,” he said.
She didn’t have a clever reply, so she kissed him, her tongue darting out and into his mouth. He played with it, his lips molding to hers, as she pushed his coat off his shoulders and then reached up to untie his cravat. He had changed out of his evening clothes and into something simpler, for which she was grateful. She couldn’t have done battle with a complicated evening knot. Then she fumbled with the buttons of his waistcoat as he pulled at the ties of her wrapper. It slid down to join the waistcoat on the floor, quickly followed by his shirt. Only when she had bared his chest did she stop and pull back to look at him.
He had always seemed so long and lean to her that she was surprised by how muscular his chest and arms were. She couldn’t resist lifting her hands to the hardened ridges of his abdomen, but when her fingers strayed a little lower he sucked in a harsh breath. “Are you sure, Cynthia?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
He kissed her harder, his hands moving down her back and then lower, cupping her through her nightdress and pulling her against him so that she could feel his hardness pressed against her. She gasped at the feel of him. He kicked off his shoes as he backed her towards the bed. When her legs connected with the mattress he leaned into her so that she fell back onto the coverlet. Then he went down on his knees before her, lifting the hem of her nightdress. He pressed his lips to the inside of her knee, and then a little higher, his lips following her nightdress as he pushed the fabric higher. It was only when he was kissing her inner thigh that she managed to ask, “What are you going to do?”
“No questions,” he commanded. “Just feel.”
She blushed at what she had imagined he meant to do, where he meant to put his lips next. But as he raised her nightdress even higher, his lips moved along with it, skimming her hips and stomach and the side of one breast until he was lifting the garment off her shoulders. Then he pulled back and looked down at her. She lay beneath his gaze, feeling slightly self-conscious. But when she put up her hands he reached down to still them. “Let me look,” he said, and he held her hands over her head while he took in her naked form. Then he lowered his head and flicked his tongue against her nipple.
It felt as though a bolt of lightning ripped through her. Her back arched up off the bed and her heart hammered in her chest. When he took the tip of her breast in his mouth and sucked, she had to press her fist against her mouth to keep from crying out. His fingers toyed with her other nipple, kneading and pinching gently. Then he kissed the underside of her breast, and then the skin below. His lips and tongue traced a path to her navel and then lower still. Again the image of his mouth in a far more intimate place came to her mind. Her very core hummed with excitement at the thought. Then he was pushing her legs further apart and his head was dropping between them. When his lips actually brushed the sensitive folds there and she realized that he meant to fulfill her fantasy, she did cry out, her whole body trembling. “Oh, Charles,” she moaned as he sucked and licked and nipped with his teeth, “I had no idea...”
He continued to pleasure her as her fingers tangled in his hair, until she felt like an instrument he was playing to perfection. Just as she felt that the crescendo must be near, however, he pulled away and moved up her body, fumbling with his trousers. “Cynthia,” he whispered, his heavy breath warming the skin behind her ear, “I can’t wait any longer.”
“Yes,” she said. She glanced down and saw his erection, hard and impossibly large, as he guided himself between her legs. Then she felt the pressure of him as he nudged inside her. The silky tip felt so good there that she
pushed and ground against him, willing him to go further, to give her more. With a groan he thrust inside her. There was a moment of pain, and another as she marveled at the fact that he was actually inside her, and then he looked down at her and smiled.
“Perfect,” he said. And then he moved, withdrawing from her until she felt her body crying out for him. Then he thrust in, finding a rhythm that made her whole body sing. She moved along with him, trying to match his pace, until the pleasure was almost too much to bear. He reached down and lifted one of her legs to his hips, and when he did he slid even deeper, touching a place she hadn’t known existed within her, and she wrapped both legs around him to allow him to thrust even further inside. She knew she could not bear the delicious friction much longer, and just when she thought she might go mad with the sensations she felt, the music that was filling her whole body reached its apex and tumbled down, taking her with it. She cried out his name and he moaned and stilled inside her, and for a moment neither of them moved.
When it was over, he rolled onto his side next to her and pulled her close, pressing his lips to her forehead. For a long while they lay there, neither of them speaking, her fingers splayed across his chest.
At last, when she managed to lift her head, she rested her chin on his chest. “Clarissa was right,” she said softly.
“What do you mean?”
She blushed and pressed her lips to his chest. What had she meant?
He put one finger under her chin and lifted it so that her eyes met his. “Am I to understand that I owe your sudden change of heart to the Countess of Stowe?”
Cynthia bit her lip. “She said that...well, she said that I wouldn’t truly understand the choice I was making unless we...”
He grinned. “I must send her some flowers.”
“Charles!”
He laughed at her consternation. “Very well, perhaps not.”
They were silent again. She laid her cheek against his shoulder and closed her eyes. “What happens now?” she asked.
He chuckled, and she felt the rumble of the low sound beneath her. “Now,” he said, “we sleep.”
Charles woke to the first hints of light peeking through the window. Beside him Cynthia lay pressed against his body, deep in slumber, her cheek on his shoulder. She looked so untroubled that he decided he would slip away without waking her. But as he put his arm out to gently slide her away from his body, he glanced down and saw the dark purple bruising around her upper arm. The shape of the marks made them look as though they had been made by someone’s fingers.
Charles felt a surge of anger so powerful that he almost woke her up to ask what had happened, though he could easily surmise on his own. Instead he promised himself that he would ask later, when he could be a little calmer about the whole thing.
Slowly, carefully he extricated himself from the bed, tucking the coverlet around her when she shivered. Then he dressed quickly and slipped through the silent house. He did not see a soul as he passed through the hall and out into the sleeping winter garden. But when he reached the alley and turned back towards Wimpole Street, the hair on the back of his neck stood up.
The Rat was watching. Charles forced himself not to look up, not to glance about him for Jacqueline’s henchman. But he could feel the Rat, somewhere in the early morning shadows, trailing him invisibly but persistently. To take his mind off his pursuer, Charles began to consider all that had happened in the last few hours.
When Cynthia had asked him to come to her, he had hardly believed it. Surely it must be some sort of joke, he thought. He had puzzled over it the whole way home after they had dropped Cynthia off, not paying attention at all to Imogen’s banter, even when she asked him a direct question. She had to say his name three times when the carriage stopped outside Danforth House before he got out to hand her down.
“You’re very far away, aren’t you?” she asked. Then she giggled. “Or perhaps only as far as Cavendish Square.”
He only nodded silently and went upstairs to change his clothes. It was not uncommon for him to go out again after an evening with his sister, and Imogen was already in bed when he went back down the stairs and called for a hackney. He had not given Cynthia’s request another thought until he was in her bed.
But now, as he drew nearer to St. James’s Square, he finally allowed himself to wonder at everything that had happened over the course of the evening. Leo had forgiven him, or at least decided not to stonily ignore him any longer. Anders Rennick had threatened him. And Cynthia—beautiful, perfect Cynthia—had given herself to him. He had dreamed of having her naked beneath him, had fantasized about that moment nearly every day for the last week. As he paid the driver and marched through the chill pre-dawn air into Danforth House, he marveled at everything that had happened in one week. He had expected, when he decided to take his seat and find someone to teach him how to do his duty in Parliament, that this would be a month of endless tedium. It had turned out quite differently.
He climbed the stairs to the massive ducal bedchamber. He had never felt comfortable in the room, and had only begun using it a few months earlier at his mother’s insistence. Every Duke of Danforth had slept in that room, in that bed, she had argued, not understanding that that fact was part of what gave him pause about sleeping there. Now, he looked at the massive carved bed, its dark wood polished to a high sheen, and imagined having Cynthia there, pictured her pale, creamy skin against the sheets.
Perhaps the ducal bedchamber, like the dukedom itself, could have its perks.
He undressed and threw himself into bed, hoping to catch a few hours’ sleep before he had to get up and prepare for that afternoon’s lesson.
FIFTEEN
January 15, 1834
Cynthia woke to the sound of Ellen humming softly as she straightened the room. Before sitting up, she reached out her hand to make sure Charles wasn’t somehow still in the bed. It was only when she saw her bare arm that she remembered she was naked.
Oh, dear.
Ellen was still bustling about, picking up Cynthia’s wrapper and nightgown. She must have realized Cynthia was awake, for she said, “I’ll take the coverlet and sheets and wash them myself, Miss, but we’ll have to be quick if we don’t want them to stain.”
Of course. Cynthia glanced down and saw the ruddy red mark of her virgin blood on the fabric. She sat up, holding the sheet over her breasts, feeling her flush deepen. “Thank you, Ellen,” she managed to murmur.
“No trouble, Miss,” Ellen said, and she turned away to hang up the nightdress, but not before Cynthia saw the hint of a grin on her lips.
“Ellen,” she said, “I can’t ask you to—”
“You don’t have to, Miss. I’m the only one who knows what happened last night. Mallory was dead asleep. Cook sleeps down in the kitchens, you know, and she didn’t hear a thing neither, and the girls’ room is too far away.” She smiled again. “Your secret is safe with me, Miss.”
“Thank you,” Cynthia said.
“It’s nothing, Miss. I’m just pleased you’ve found a little piece of happiness for yourself. You deserve it, Miss, truly you do.”
Unbidden, Cynthia felt tears come to her eyes.
“I must get these cleaned,” Ellen said, tweaking the loose sheet.
“Of course. Then I should like a bath,” Cynthia said.
Ellen nodded, still smiling. She helped Cynthia into her wrapper and began stripping the bed. Cynthia sat at her dressing table, sipping the coffee Ellen had brought in with her, trying not to look as embarrassed as she felt. She sneaked a glance at the looking-glass. Her hair was hopelessly tousled. Did she look like a fallen woman? She certainly felt different—sore, for one thing. But also happy. She had made the right choice, and she could not feel sorry for it. As Ellen swept out of the room, Cynthia wondered what her father would say if he could see her now. The thought of his bright purple face, rather than terrifying her, made her giggle a little. He would say that she was no better than her mother, but Cynthia
disagreed. She had proved that she was not her mother, who had only welcomed the attentions of men for the money they provided. Cynthia had done exactly what her father had taught her to do: she had sought knowledge, and she had found it.
Somehow, she didn’t think he would consider that a compelling argument. He would say that she had forgotten all the work it had taken to get her here.
And he would be right. She had forgotten.
She had developed feelings for Charles, had perhaps even begun to fall in love with him. Those feelings were making it difficult for her to view the situation rationally, she knew, and yet she found that she didn’t care. That was the trouble. If she stopped caring about the potential consequences of allowing herself to love Charles, she would marry him without a second thought and forget the fact that she was little more than a machine, a tool purposefully made for a singular reason. The years of careful training had already kicked in more than once, when she was out in society. That night at the theatre, for instance, when she had allowed the veil of the society belle to descend. Charles had noticed it, she knew. If she became his wife, she would have to wear that mask far more often, and she was not willing to do that. If she fell in love with him, then she wanted him to fall in love with her, not that other Cynthia, the girl she had learned to be in order to save her real self from being destroyed by her father.
She had to remind herself what she was, and what she could never be.
Cynthia had a long soak and washed her hair. She sat in her chair beneath the window to let her hair dry and read the newspaper, which was blissfully free of any mention of her and Charles. When she had finished reading she sat a while longer, considering what she meant to do. After Ellen had come to dress her and fix her hair, she made up her mind and went out into the corridor.
In her father’s study sat a beautifully carved desk that had been built for him by a great cabinet-maker. It had been in his study in Oxford, too, and had been the first thing installed in the townhouse when they came to London. It was a lovely piece, for all she had stood cowering before it more times than she could count. But it also hid a secret.
