by Lily Maxton
Cale stopped by a gilded mirror in the hallway to straighten his cravat. From a distance he heard a knock at the door and the murmur of his butler. The first guests had arrived.
With an irritating jump of nerves, he walked to the staircase and descended. He stopped on the landing above the entrance hall and saw Mr. Stapleton, a historian who’d just published a book, and his wife.
But his gaze was riveted by a flash of fair hair behind them.
As though she could feel his interest, Elizabeth looked up, and her cobalt-blue eyes met his, sending an electric jolt through him, as though she’d brushed her fingertips along his face.
She lifted one shoulder in a dainty shrug.
All of his tension abruptly eased. He laughed and moved toward her, guided by her answering smile like a vagabond following the North Star.
Chapter Four
Cale came down the staircase as leisurely as he was confident—a king intent on surveying his domain. Elizabeth had no doubt that in this metaphor she was his domain. As he greeted the guests who’d arrived before her, she turned away to compose herself, suddenly feeling a riot of nervous energy. And was confronted with a full-scale nude statue of Venus that stood proudly at the base of the stairs.
Why wasn’t she surprised?
“I see you’ve noticed my Venus,” Cale said wickedly, arms folded over his chest.
The other guests had made their way to the drawing room. She glanced at him with an arched brow, endeavoring to appear as self-assured as he. “It’s difficult not to notice. A bit gaudy, don’t you think?”
“I have an appreciation for the feminine form,” he responded.
She cast another surreptitious look at Venus with her full, rounded breasts, flat stomach, and gently curved thighs. “A rather idealized feminine form.”
His hand rested on the small of her back, and he leaned close to her. When he spoke, his breath tickled her ear. “Don’t fret, Elizabeth. I prefer flaws to perfection.”
She couldn’t find an answering quip to that, so she remained silent.
As he led her into the drawing room, he asked, “What did you tell your family?”
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I didn’t,” she replied, feeling a brief stab of guilt over her lie by omission. “I pleaded a headache and waited until they left for the evening’s engagements before slipping out.”
He sent her a neutral glance, but didn’t have a chance to reply, as they’d joined the others.
He introduced her as Mrs. Grey, a distant relation. She had to bite her lip to keep from laughing when she heard that, and she doubted the other guests were convinced. Cale wasn’t exerting much of an effort to seem disinterested. He rarely left her side.
As she spoke with the Stapletons and the guests who arrived later, she took in the details of his drawing room. It contained elegant rosewood furniture, gleaming floors covered in lush rugs, and yellow wallpaper with a subtle Oriental motif. He either had remarkably good taste or he’d hired someone to help him decorate his house in a way fit for a nobleman.
But he wasn’t a nobleman. He wasn’t even a gentleman. A fact that was made abundantly clear when she met Julia Forsythe. The name sounded familiar, but Elizabeth was quite sure she’d never been introduced to the woman. She would have remembered her appearance—pale skin contrasting with dark hair, eyes a deep blue that looked nearly violet, and a gown with a scandalously low-cut bodice.
“Miss Forsythe is in the process of writing a biographical account,” Cale said. “Naturally, all the names will remain anonymous.”
Elizabeth was still puzzling over what that meant when Miss Forsythe, her ample bosom heaving with excitement, said, “I just thought of a perfect title yesterday. Confessions of a Courtesan. What do you think of it?” She beamed at them, her exotic beauty nearly blinding Elizabeth.
“Splendid,” Cale said with an approving smile.
Miss Forsythe waited for her to speak. Elizabeth felt a blush creep into her cheeks. She knew now where she’d heard the name before. Julia Forsythe had been linked to some of the most influential men in the aristocracy. But surely, none of those men would have had the gall to invite her to the same dinner party a countess was attending. “Ah…y-yes,” she stammered. “Indeed, a splendid title.”
“Do you write for Mr. Cameron?” the courtesan asked politely.
“No,” Elizabeth said. “I’m…a distant relation.”
The other woman’s gaze swung between the two of them like a pendulum. “Of course you are, dear,” she said with an all-too-knowing curve of her lips.
Elizabeth bristled.
As soon as Julia left them, she turned on Cale. “She is one of your writers?”
He nodded. “I’m expecting high sales from that book. People delight in scandal.”
He didn’t notice the incredulous look Elizabeth pinned him with. “And your relationship with her?” She didn’t particularly want to sound like a shrewish fishwife, but she was having a difficult time with the idea of a notorious courtesan working for Cale.
He looked down at her, a confused notch between his brows. “What about our relationship?”
“Is it purely professional?”
His confusion was replaced by a grin. “Are you jealous, Elizabeth?”
Dreadfully. Painfully. Horribly jealous. “No,” she clipped out, gut twisting. “Your predilections have no bearing on me.” Her voice sounded stilted even to her own ears, a clear indication she’d just uttered a falsehood.
His smile grew broader. “My relationship with Miss Forsythe is strictly professional,” he said. “I would never involve myself with someone who worked for me. It’s not good business. And in any case, my interest lies elsewhere.”
She adjusted her gloves, an excuse to look away from him. “I shouldn’t be here with her. It’s not proper.”
“Come now, you won’t let one little courtesan scare you away, will you?” he teased, and then added, more seriously, “I invited all my current authors. It wasn’t my intent to make you uncomfortable.”
“I know,” she said, immediately contrite. Of course he hadn’t. She was being ungracious.
“You’ll stay?” Was that a hint of worry in his voice?
A lock of brown hair had fallen over his forehead, and she had to ball her hands into fists to resist the urge to brush it back. “I’ll stay.”
If she’d had any lingering suspicions over his interest in Miss Forsythe, they were put to rest during the dinner party. He barely glanced at the other woman. If anything, his gaze lingered on Elizabeth far more often than it should have.
His attention made her giddy. His questions made her feel she was just as intelligent as he was. He didn’t speak down to her, as Charles often had. Cale listened to her opinions with interest. When she didn’t know something, he was encouraging but never condescending.
The lavish five-course meal was equal to anything an aristocrat might serve at a dinner party, but despite that, it was surprisingly informal. The topics that were usually avoided in mixed company, such as politics and business, and even a brief discussion of Miss Forsythe’s book, were touched upon without embarrassment or concern for gender. When the meal was finished, the men and women didn’t separate but went back to the drawing room together.
They all talked late into the night, but the time passed astonishingly quickly. Eventually the others began to depart, but Elizabeth lingered, waiting for the room to empty.
After bidding farewell to the last guest, Cale came to stand beside her. She was sitting in a claw-footed armchair by the fireplace, staring into the sparking depths of the embers.
“Did you enjoy yourself?”
“I did,” she said, broken out of her thoughts. “More than I suspected I would, actually.” She smiled up at him. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“You’re welcome here, always.”
Longing pierced her, as potent—more potent—than she’d ever felt before. “Lord Thornhill proposed to me,” she told Cale.
He was still; then he made an abrupt gesture with his hand before letting it fall to his side. Had he been about to reach for her?
“Did you give him an answer?” His voice was smooth.
“I told him I needed time to think.”
Cale gazed into the fire. “You didn’t see the way he looked at you. Or you didn’t recognize it.”
She blinked, startled. “What do you mean?”
His voice took on a low fervency. “I watched you dance with him at the ball. He looks at you in awe, like you’re untouchable. He puts you on a pedestal, Elizabeth. He’ll treat you like glass, like you’re too fragile to hear certain things, to know certain things. He’ll make love to you in the dark with half his clothes still on, like a true aristocratic husband. He’ll be too afraid to break you. Or to ever really know you.”
It took her a moment to speak past her consternation. “You gathered all of that from one dance?” she said, striving for levity, frightened by his intensity.
“It’s not difficult if you know what to look for.”
She didn’t think he was being quite fair to Michael. Thornhill might treat her delicately, as a gentleman would, but that didn’t necessarily mean he would put her on a pedestal. “He would be a better husband than Charles.”
A wry laugh escaped Cale. “I doubt it would take much to be a better husband than Charles. But Thornhill still won’t treat you as you deserve to be treated.”
She tipped her head. “How do you think I deserve to be treated?”
His eyes glittered in the firelight. “Like a flesh-and-blood woman.”
She wanted to look away and break the spell that enthralled her. But she found herself locked into place. “And that’s how you’ll treat me?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“But you won’t offer marriage?” Somehow, the idea of a bookseller marrying a countess didn’t seem as laughable as it should have.
A brief hesitation. “No.” Then a slight shake of his head, as though to reaffirm his pronouncement. “But…is marriage what you desire?”
“It should be,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “It truly should be.” She stood up, pushing to her feet with unsteady arms. He noticed her shakiness, and reached out to grip her elbow.
With the faintest sigh of surrender, she leaned into him.
And, easing out that trembling breath, she lifted her face to seek his kiss.
…
The trip to Cale’s bedchamber was a hurried one. He lifted Elizabeth in his arms as though she weighed nothing and, without ever breaking the kiss, strode out the door and up the stairs.
He laid her gently on his enormous bed and used kindling to light a few candles, illuminating the room with a faint glow. Then he came to her, canting his body over hers, meeting her lips as though it was the last time they would ever kiss.
And maybe it was.
But when his deft fingers slid under her back and began unfastening her gown, she stopped thinking about it. Her bodice and petticoat fell away. He cupped her breast through the thin cotton of her chemise, testing the weight. His thumb brushed over her nipple and it pebbled hard, and her back arched up to press her aching flesh more firmly into his palm.
He did everything he’d said he would.
And more.
As he removed her clothes, his mouth touched every inch of exposed skin. His tongue flicked out to taste the pulse at the base of her throat before sweeping her collarbone and then lavishing her breasts. His lips and tongue forged a hot, moist trail down her stomach while the fabric of his coat scratched her sensitive skin. When she was completely naked before him, stretched out like some pagan sacrifice while he was still clothed, he knelt at the foot of the bed and his hands parted her thighs.
His head moved between her legs and he kissed her deeply, gently, right at her center. The tips of her breasts stung with pleasure, and an incessant ache throbbed in the intimate place he touched her. She felt a trickle of moisture, and she wanted to close her legs against him, but he held her too firmly. His tongue slid along her folds, pressed deep inside her.
At some point, her embarrassment flitted away and she couldn’t control the undulation of her hips to meet his mouth or the moans that came from her throat.
She watched hungrily as he stood and began to undress. She had a brief impression of a muscled abdomen and a path of hair that pointed down toward his cock before he moved closer again and stood between her still-parted legs.
She expected him to crawl back onto the bed. Instead, his hands touched her thighs and pushed her wider apart.
“Cale,” she whispered. Pleaded. She felt too exposed like this, with him looking down at her vulnerable body.
“I want to see you. Us,” he said, his voice raw and low. “Trust me.” The stark desire on his face was unmistakable. Charles might not have liked what he’d seen, but Cale certainly did.
She felt a blunt pressure at her entrance. He eased into her slowly, easily. He pushed all the way in, until she was filled with a delicious pressure.
“Touch yourself,” he murmured, grasping her hand and guiding it to where they were joined. “It will feel better if you do.”
No, she couldn’t. It wasn’t…proper. Charles had never— But then Cale pressed gently on her fingertips, guiding them in a slow, circular motion, and she gasped at the sensation. When he let her go, she kept her hand where it was, continuing the seductive rhythm he’d begun.
He tilted his hips, drew out slowly, and thrust back in. His hands were everywhere, grasping her waist, touching her breasts, stroking down her stomach. And his eyes…he drank her in, his intense gaze brushing from her face, down her body, and back to meet her eyes, and she felt it like he’d physically touched her.
Her fingers instinctively increased their tempo as Cale’s plunges quickened. Her back arched, wanting to draw him deeper. Their harsh breathing mingled. Their movements became more frantic as she climbed to some height she’d never reached.
And then, it was as if time slowed…and she shattered. Her whole body pulsed around him, and he grasped her hips, pushing himself deep inside her, holding fast as he poured his seed. As he claimed her. A frozen tableau of desire met in an endless thrum of pleasure, then collapsed, needs fulfilled.
Then the moment was gone, and time continued. He rolled down beside her. She turned into him and pressed her lips to his neck, tasting salt. She breathed deeply as her heartbeat gradually slowed to a normal pace.
And as conscious thought returned, it occurred, though she’d been as intimate with him as two people could be, she didn’t know anything about his life other than his occupation. But she wanted to know. Perhaps it was foolish when their arrangement was only temporary, but she wanted to know him. “Do you have a family, Cale?”
He brushed a tendril of hair back from her forehead. “I did a long time ago. When I was ten, my parents and my siblings died in a fire. I’d sneaked out one night because I wanted to see the fireworks at Vauxhall. When I returned, the house was in flames. We lived in rented rooms at the time. They found a knocked-over lamp in one of the other tenant’s apartments.”
“That must have been awful,” she said, horrified. “What happened to you after that? Did you have relatives to take you in?”
He shook his head. “None who wanted to, at least. I ended up in a workhouse. And as soon as I could escape from there, I did. I found a job with a merchant and slowly worked my way up to more pay. I never bought anything for myself. I lived in the cheapest rented rooms I could find and only bought new clothes when the ones I wore had nearly turned to rags. After years and years, I’d saved up enough to start my own bookshop. It was a dream I’d held onto for a long time. My father had liked to read. We couldn’t afford books, but we’d borrow from a lending library.”
She regarded him with awe. It was more than a little impressive that he’d had the strength of will to go from the workhouse to owning the most successful bookshop in London. But
something else tangled with her pride. “You’ve been alone all this time?”
“Everyone is alone,” he stated, as though it was a simple fact of life. “You were married, and you were alone.”
But not in the same way. She’d had her sisters. She’d always had someone to lean on when she hadn’t felt strong. Cale hadn’t had anyone since he was a child. And yet, she suspected his solitary life was a choice, a self-imposed isolation.
What would a child do if he’d lost everything he’d ever loved in one instant? Cale had protected himself from further loss.
The thought, the realization, suddenly felt like an unbearable weight on her heart, and she experienced sorrow in the aftermath of something that should have made her feel free.
He seemed to sense her change in mood. His next words deftly moved them onto an easier path. “I hope there’s no more question of your husband being a fool.” He sounded thoroughly satisfied.
“What husband?” she asked, an impish smile curving her lips.
He laughed and drew her in for a kiss.
And she forgot all about sorrow.
…
When she looked back on the next week, it seemed like a dream. Her time with Cale was so vivid, everything else faded into obscurity, until she couldn’t be sure if the hours she spent away from him were a dream or real.
All she’d known at the time was that she didn’t want to wake.
She would feign mild illness, and after her family left for their amusements each night, she would meet him at his townhouse. She learned from her mother that Lord Thornhill had inquired after her health with due concern when they’d seen him at a ball—news that Elizabeth had listened to with a wash of guilt.
Still, whatever guilt she felt over her deceit didn’t prevent her from going to Cale. They talked late into the evening on any topic imaginable; they made love, sometimes multiple times each night, and not with dwindling passion as Elizabeth might have expected, but increasing. The more familiar they became with one another, the more right things felt.
Sometimes at night, Cale would read to her, or they would play cards, something quiet and mundane. They were memories she held close and dear. Memories she valued even more than the passion she experienced with him.
