Obsession Wears Opals

by Renee Bernard

  “Caroline is having tea this afternoon at four with the other wives and wished me meet her circle but . . .” She nodded, then stopped herself. “Wait! How did you know that Richard had discovered where I was? You announced it when you came in before I said anything of the letter.”

  Darius groaned and lowered his head onto her lap. “God, you’re clever, woman.”

  “Just tell me in a rush.”

  He answered her without lifting his head, obstinately enjoying the soft feel of her silk skirts and the warmth of her thigh against his cheek. “I ran into Richard, managed to bluff my way past him and pretend to admire the bastard. It was like stepping over a sleeping tiger and I’m not sure I managed it with any actual grace—but I lived to tell the tale.”

  “Well, that’s an accomplishment.”

  “He’s pieced nothing together, Isabel. I’m just an annoying acquaintance who found your horse and whom he assumes shares his penchant for the worst sexual games.”

  “We’re running out of time, Darius. The demon is almost on our doorstep.”

  “We’ll get you out of England if we have to but he’s watching me now, and if I run, he’ll know I have cause. If I stay and make a show of staying, he’ll second-guess his instincts and we’ll have more time. Perhaps the time we need.”

  “I won’t leave you.”

  “We don’t need to decide anything today.” Darius groaned and shifted back to see her face. “Did I mention that I hate your husband with a loathing that has no equal in the history of man?”

  Tears filled her pale blue eyes but she smiled. “It’s one of the things I love about you, sir.”

  “My loathing for Richard?”

  “Your passion for me,” she amended and then leaned over to cradle his face in her hands and kiss him.

  The velvet of his lips to hers was a soothing balm to her frayed nerves, and Darius responded by delving into the soft textures of her mouth, tasting and teasing her until she was sure the room had tilted her out of her chair and into his arms. All her grief and fears transformed into a need for the comfort of Darius’s touch, and Isabel melted against him, sighing as his strong arms pressed her close.

  Each kiss linked to another, a sensual chain of desire that blurred the lines between giving and receiving. Isabel moaned as her senses came alive, arching her back to ride the waves of wanton fire that rippled through her body and pooled between her hips.

  “Come take me to bed, woman. I’m exhausted but I need you. I need you to love me until I fall asleep.” His eyes blazed with raw hunger, and her own hunger leapt up at the knowledge that she alone had inspired his lust.

  “Yes.”

  He swept her up into his arms and carried her toward the four-poster bed.

  Isabel buried her face in his neck and inhaled the delicious smell of his skin. He was still slightly damp from bathing in the room off the kitchens, and it reminded her of his rituals and the occupation of his nights.

  He was doing everything he could for her and she had no illusions of him taking any pleasure in any of these vile clubs. She knew him better. She knew without a breath of doubt that he was nightly sacrificing more than any man should—and all for her.

  It was unacceptable.

  But what choice do we have?

  Isabel kissed the pulse at his throat and knew the answer.

  No choice but to love him for as long as I live.

  ***

  As Darius still slept, Isabel indulged in the rare experience of female companionship and the light joy to be found in a simple social gathering. The ladies of the Jaded had gathered in the large dressing room connected to Caroline’s bedroom, transforming it into an impromptu picnic and high tea. Mrs. Clark had brought in extra chairs and added flowers from Bellewood’s hothouse to make it perfect for the women’s meeting.

  “I love this room!” Lady Winters exclaimed. “It’s so bright and cheerful!”

  “The flowers are a lovely touch,” Mrs. West added. “Although, I’m sure we’d have been just as comfortable in your bedroom. . . .”

  Caroline squeaked in protest and rang the bell. “Don’t say it! It took a week to negotiate this ‘treacherous journey’ of thirty steps, and I for one am glad to see a different pattern of wallpaper!”

  Mrs. Clark came in with the tea trolley, bursting with pride at the abundance of delicacies on each silver platter. “Good afternoon, ladies. If you need anything at all, you’re just to ring. Shall I pour?”

  “Oh no.” Caroline waved her off gently. “We can manage, Mrs. Clark. Thank you! It’s a feast. Please tell Ellie she’s outdone herself and that I’m . . . overwhelmed.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell her, madam. Thank you.” Mrs. Clark curtsied with a huge grin and left them to their conversation.

  Lady Winters eyed the cart. “Gracious! I’m not eating for a week after this. Are those your cook’s famous chocolate tarts?” She bit her lower lip. “I’ll ask for the recipe later, but if you care for me at all, don’t give it to me.”

  Isabel smiled. She liked Lady Winters’s easy manners and recognized the universal struggle every woman seemed to have with her figure. Although, it was apparent from the lady’s cleverly tailored dress and lithe, balanced figure that her fear of chocolates was ungrounded.

  I wonder why we do that? No matter how perfect we are . . . why we worry so?

  “Helen, would you help me serve?” Caroline asked.

  “With pleasure,” Isabel answered. The opportunity to pour gave her a chance to busy her hands and steady her nerves. It had been a long time since she’d been out amidst company and she wasn’t sure if her social skills hadn’t faded from a lack of use. And this was no ordinary company. She was surrounded by some of the most beautiful women she’d ever seen, each striking in her own way. She had never felt more self-conscious about her lack of coloring than this moment as she surveyed the mahogany silk of Lady Winters’s hair, Mrs. West’s black tresses, and the ripe gold of Caroline’s curls.

  It’s ridiculous, but I swear I look like a powdered white pastry by comparison.

  Gayle smiled at her as she took her cup, refusing sugar. “Thank you so much.”

  “Did you want milk, Mrs. West?” Isabel asked.

  “Gayle,” the woman replied, eyes the color of violets flashing with humor. “You are well in it, now. I know I speak for our informal little club when I say anyone who has been so kind to Caroline and won her approval—”

  “Has the love of all of us!” Lady Winters finished merrily. “And you must call me Haley. We don’t stand on formalities in this company.”

  “Oh,” Isabel exclaimed softly and nearly overflowed Haley’s cup. “I’m . . .”

  “Whoa!” Caroline laughed. “I should have warned you, but I’m sure I said something about the unique nature of my friends.”

  Isabel nodded. “You did, but I wouldn’t have presumed to instantly be so . . . welcome.” She blushed. “After all, my circumstances are . . . awkward at best.”

  Gayle shook her head. “We are not always the mistresses of our surroundings and circumstances. There’s not a woman among us who doesn’t admire your courage.”

  Haley nodded. “My Aunt Alice isn’t discreet enough for confidences, but even when I mentioned a hypothetical version of events to her—well, I believe she advocated something involving hanging a certain peer up by his . . . Let’s just say she was in total support of your defection.”

  The women laughed, and even Isabel managed a smile.

  “Besides,” Gayle interjected, “we love Darius, and to see him happy is a true delight.”

  “I just wish Ashe would stop teasing the man!” Caroline sighed. “Why do men feel compelled to give each other such a hard time over the—”

  A knock at the door interrupted their conversation and there was a small flurry as another lady arrived. Isabel was astonished at her fiery red hair pulled back into intricate and modest braids and her face a striking composition highlighted by eyes the color of
a tropical rain forest against skin like cream. Or what would have been cream but for the blaze of embarrassment on her cheeks. “I’m late! I’m so dreadfully sorry! Did I miss anything?”

  They all stood to make room for her as Caroline did the honors. “Mrs. Helen Stewart, may I introduce the newest member to join our odd clan? This is Eleanor Hastings, newly married to Josiah Hastings, the artist.”

  Eleanor nervously smoothed a stray curl back into place and held out her gloved hand to shake Isabel’s. “Mrs. Stewart, I am honored and hope I’ve not insulted you by coming late. I . . . was delayed.” Her blush deepened as she made a study of removing her gloves.

  Isabel shook her head. “Not at all, Mrs. Hastings.”

  “First names, remember?” Caroline corrected her, then turned to Eleanor. “And you are a newlywed and expected to be late to everything.”

  The women exchanged knowing looks as Eleanor primly took her seat. “There is no excuse for tardiness,” Eleanor amended, then laughed in spite of herself. “But it’s true that I am still navigating just how late a man can make you when he applies himself.”

  Isabel sat back as the rest of the visit flew. The women jested openly about their beautiful husbands and the strange twists of fate that had brought not only the original circle of men together, but now this next tier of feminine company. All but apparently Mr. Rutherford had forfeited their bachelor state—although, out of respect, none of the women probed too directly about the nature of her relationship with Darius and its questionable future.

  Instead, they spoke of Haley’s new dress designs, of Gayle’s progress with her medical studies, of Caroline’s preparations for her baby’s arrival, and of Josiah Hasting’s reluctant agreement to show a painting publicly during the summer season.

  “It’s to be in June,” Eleanor announced. “Lady in Red has caused a stir but I’m hoping his next painting will also make a splash.”

  Caroline sighed. “I’ll miss it, then. I’m already desperate to see it! Ashe is still raving over it and it’s simply not fair, but I suppose it won’t be any less lovely by the time Gayle consents to my release.”

  “Complain all you like, Caroline Blackwell,” Gayle countered, “but when you have that sweet babe in your arms, you’ll bless every cautious measure you’ve taken and thank me for the fuss!”

  Isabel held out a plate of gingerbread cakes to Caroline with a conspiratorial grin. “Here. Eat one and placate her.”

  Caroline waved away the plate. “I’ve no room for another bite, but thank you.”

  Haley shook her head vehemently. “As to the art show, I’d say we can solve that problem for you, Caroline. The boys can bring it here and we’ll have a private showing all our own. Ashe isn’t going to allow you to miss the fun!” She turned to the other women for support. “Am I right?”

  Eleanor pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I’d prefer to view it just with friends. The thought of the public terrifies me.”

  “That settles it,” Haley announced. “We’ll bring the show to you a month before the public gets a peek and make a small party of it.”

  Gayle crossed her arms. “A very small, quiet party of it, ladies, and Caroline will be abed or I’ll put my foot down and forbid the venture.”

  They all obediently agreed, and before long, the tea was at an end.

  Isabel helped to gather plates and cups, discreetly admiring her new friends. This. This is what normal felt like once. Friends and laughter, social calls and silly conversations. God, what a blessing to be this version of myself again. . . .

  She bent down to retrieve a napkin and regretted it instantly. The room tilted in a strange electric wash of sparks, and before she knew it, Isabel was staring up from the couch, where she’d magically landed with the ladies’ help.

  “Cold lemon water, Mrs. Clark,” Gayle commanded softly, startling Isabel into realizing that she’d lost a few minutes if the housekeeper had materialized, if the tea trolley had vanished, and if the furniture had been moved.

  “I’m fine.” Isabel pushed away the hands that would have restrained her. “I moved too quickly and the blood rushed to my head.”

  “You’re terribly pale,” Caroline whispered.

  Isabel smiled. “I am always terribly pale, dear friend.” She sat up, embarrassed to be the center of attention. “Please. It’s nothing at all and I’m perfectly fine.”

  “It’s the stress of . . . circumstances, Helen,” Haley offered. “We should leave you to get some rest. Both of you,” she added to include Caroline and spare Gayle the fuss. “Before Mrs. Clark returns and chases us from the house with a broom for causing trouble.”

  The ladies disbanded with quick hugs and gestures of affection that underlined Isabel’s amazement at her newfound membership in their circle. But Gayle West lingered, seeing Caroline to bed over her protests, and then returning to sit with Isabel alone in the dressing room for a few more moments.

  “May I ask you something very directly and very privately?” Gayle asked softly. “As a physician and as a friend?”

  Isabel nodded.

  “When did you have your last monthly courses?”

  Isabel gasped. “I . . . for . . .” She forced herself to stop and think calmly, despite the strange question. “Sometime early in January.”

  “It is March.” Gayle folded her hands in her lap. “Is it generally a regular occurrence? Your time of the month?”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Am I . . . ill?”

  Gayle shook her head. “No, I think not. It’s fairly soon but it may be that you’re pregnant. If you wish, I can arrange for an examination here and we can know for certain.”

  Isabel was speechless. She wasn’t entirely ignorant of the process but naïve enough apparently to have missed the obvious. “Gayle. Please don’t—say anything. I’m . . . until I’m certain, I cannot . . .”

  Gayle reached over to touch her hand, her eyes full of sympathy and support. “I take professional pride in my discretion, Helen. I’ll say nothing, not even to Rowan. And don’t worry. Everything has a way of coming right. Even when it seems impossible—or perhaps, especially when it seems impossible.”

  “Thank you.”

  Gayle left her alone with her thoughts and intercepted Mrs. Clark in the hallway to give her more time to absorb this latest twist of fate.

  A tendril of joy curled up inside her, but the nightmare of adding more pressure to Darius’s already stressful existence drowned it out. Not to mention her own precarious position in life . . .

  A married woman who takes up with another man.

  What do they call such a woman? A wicked voice in her head that sounded like Richard immediately answered. They call her a whore, my dear.

  Oh, God.

  And what do they call her when she is carrying her lover’s child?

  It was her own internal voice that answered this time with equally quiet cruelty.

  They call her a fool.

  Chapter

  25

  “Out for a bit of sport, sir?” The hostess of the house came forward, her ample bosom barely covered by a low-cut gown in black satin. “Welcome to Gray’s.”

  Unlike all the other clubs, there wasn’t a single working girl visible and no patrons in sight. Only the hostess in her garish dress and one surly bear of a bodyguard who’d suffered himself to wear nothing more than a loincloth and be painted head to toe in silver paint. He’d have been mistaken for an ugly statue except for the obvious glare on his face and change in his position when Darius came through the inner door. In a small foyer with several doors ornately carved and painted gray, Darius fought a touch of uncertainty. It was the last name on the list, and when Richard had tried to warn him off it, Darius had decided not to waste any time.

  Now that the bastard knows I’m lurking about, he might be out covering his trail by bribing the women in his wake to silence.

  Or threatening them to hold their tongues.

  Or paying that silver gorilla to break
my neck.

  “I am somewhat.”

  “What flavor?” she asked smoothly.

  “I want Netherton’s favorite, if she’s available.”

  “Ah.” She eyed him up and down as if assessing him with new eyes. “That’s an expensive flavor, sir.”

  “I will pay whatever it takes. But only for Netherton’s favorite.”

  “His true favorite isn’t in tonight, but Julia knows him well enough and can provide you the same pleasures.”

  Damn it. So much for my luck.

  “I’ll take her for the night.” He held out a small purse, and once she felt its weight, her smile broadened.

  “Yes, the night!” She stepped back with a ridiculous little theatrical flourish of her hands. “Middle door. Top of the stairs. Last door on your left.”

  “Brilliant,” he muttered and headed through the door, ignoring the gray velvet cut wallpaper and silver embellishments everywhere. For an establishment that Netherton had described as past its prime, there was nothing that didn’t gleam and bespeak wealth in the house.

  God, what a waste! Another secondary player who’s going to show me a few scars and make me wish I hadn’t been born . . . which means another trip back to try to meet his “true favorite,” whatever the hell that means, and then I think I’m at my wit’s end.

  He counted the identical gray doors and flinched at some of the muted sounds of distress coming through the walls. Even after weeks of his exposure to the inner workings of these clubs, it never failed to shake him to hear a child crying or the screams of a woman in agony.

  He hurried to the last door and knocked twice before entering, not actually waiting for a response to turn the knob and escape the hallway.

  “Ah!” a woman spoke in surprise. “In a hurry tonight, darling?”

  He shook his head, then had to blink in confusion at the tangle in front of him. She was a petite blonde wearing black lace skirts and a black leather corset, but instead of sitting in a sexy pose or preening, she was sitting next to the bed openly fighting knotted leather straps that connected her somewhat painfully to the bedpost. The straps were on so tightly that he could see them biting into her flesh and starting to draw blood.