A Lady’s Code of Misconduct

by Meredith Duran

  The door opened. Without looking, Jane spat, “Go back to her, then.”

  His voice was sharp: “What?”

  Lady Farnsworth was stunning, a porcelain doll of miniature and perfect proportions. Immoral and faithless, too—a fine match for Mr. Burke. “Go back to her. There’s no need to explain.”

  “No need, is there?” Crispin caught her by the arm, pulling her around to face him. His lips were white. “I am your husband. If you discover me closeted with another woman, there is every need to explain.”

  Had the duchess neglected to tell him of their affair? Was this delightful task to fall to her? “That woman is your—”

  His palm covered her mouth, stopping the word. He looked feverish, his dark eyes glittering. His hand burned against her lips. “Do not say it.”

  She stared. Her imagination had concocted a dozen visions as she hurried down the hallway. A passionate reunion of long-separated lovers. In fairy tales, a true lover’s kiss awakened the slumbering victim. He would remember everything at once, and then—whispered confidences as their hands tracked down each other’s bodies. You are everything. She is nothing. Forget her.

  But the look on his face pierced her delusions. He looked gripped by some inner battle, his skin drawn tight over his cheekbones, his eyes haunted.

  “Why?” he bit out. “Why would you tell me to go back to her? Do you even know what that means?”

  His palm conveniently kept her from replying. She narrowed her eyes.

  He recoiled. “You do know. You always knew, didn’t you? You knew that she and I—” He gripped his temples as he turned away.

  Through the walls came the distant lilt of the orchestra, the merry rhythm of a reel.

  Her anger began to curdle. He was distressed. Not faithless, but deeply upset.

  “So, then.” His voice was so raw that it seemed a blessing she could not see his face. “Is that why you’ve rebuffed me? Is that what you think of me? That I would turn away from you, that I would spurn you for—God above, Jane, for someone else’s wife?”

  She felt accused by him. How unjust! Had they truly been married, what other conclusion would she have drawn from that little scene in the hallway? “I told you we married for convenience,” she said stonily. “If you took that as license, who am I to blame you?”

  He pivoted back. “You are my wife,” he growled. “And whatever reason you had for wedding me, whatever man you thought you married, I am the man in front of you now. I am bloody sick of hearing about the other one—about what you thought of him, what he expected of you. Do you understand?” He stepped toward her. “His reasons,” he gritted, “his feelings, mean nothing to me. Do you hear? I am not that man.”

  She swallowed. No, he wasn’t that man. Everything in her yearned toward this man he had become.

  But he might still change back.

  He also might not.

  And if he never changed back—then what was she to do in this moment? Everything. Her fingers curled into her palms, making tight, painful fists. How could she squander the chance to be with this man?

  Sometimes she felt as though she had dreamed this man to life.

  He narrowed his eyes. “I see the look on your face. Even now, you are thinking it. ‘This isn’t him. This isn’t real.’ What else can I say, Jane? Shall I break open my brain and let you inspect it, to make sure that the injury will last?”

  There was violence in his voice, in his face. “No,” she whispered. “I believe you.” She believed him.

  Oh, God save her. She could not bear to squander this chance.

  “Good.” A muscle flexed in his jaw. “Because here I am. I am real. I am here, standing in front of you. And I am telling you—for the first time and the last—that if this won’t serve, you should walk away. By God, do it. Do it now. Gaultier will win the lawsuit. Take all the money; to hell with the deal you claim that we struck. Or else an annulment—I will grant you one. And if it’s your uncle you fear, I’ll see you safely onto a ship, and give you half my accounts to see you safe. Yes,” he said with a black smile when she failed to hide her surprise. “I’ve seen you poring over the shipping schedules. You wish to go? I’ll book the ticket, carry your trunks to the quay myself.

  “But if our connection means anything to you.” He pushed out a ragged breath. “If you meant those tears you shed when I told you of Jonathan. If your laughter was real, and your smiles. If you feel, as I do, that you could wish for no better partner—in politics, as much as in life. If all of that is true, and not simply an act, a mask to cover your indifference—then tell me so now. Because I am finished with this stalemate. I will not endure a wife who tells me to go back to a mistress. I will not have a wife who refuses to demand explanations.”

  The moment felt crystalline. Even the music had stopped. The glass beading that trimmed the sconces, which had been shivering from the stomps of the dancers, had fallen still.

  He cursed. “So go,” he said flatly, and turned away.

  She watched her hand leap out to catch his arm. Quick as a striking snake, his own covered hers. His grip tightened to a degree shy of painful. But he did not look at her.

  “Think carefully.” His voice was threadbare. “After this, I am done with questions.”

  Fear cripples our minds and breeds delusions. They had penned that line together. But the Crispin before her . . . he was not a delusion. He was here, real, gripping her hand. He was a fact.

  And a rational decision could only be made on facts, not fears. The foundation of reason is fact, and fact alone.

  “Yes,” she breathed. “I will stay.”

  He pulled free of her. Leaving! Confusion, panic, gripped her as he walked to the door.

  He turned the key in the lock. When he turned back, his expression was calm and focused, his gaze intent.

  The revelation felt like a flush of heat. No, he was not leaving.

  Far from it.

  He came straight into her, crowded her against the wall as he took her face in his hands. His mouth came down onto hers. With his lips, he opened her mouth, penetrating her without permission, tasting her thoroughly. She had already given permission. Yes, she had said. Yes.

  She pulled his body harder into hers. His body listened; it improved on her idea. With his pelvis and chest, he pinned her solidly, a silent aggressive confidence that should have frightened her, but instead . . . undid something in her, loosened some knot that had held her rigid all night. Her knees loosened. She sagged, and his arm snaked around her, sparing her the bite of the bookshelf. He kissed his way down her chin and throat, licked her pulse and trailed lower. His hot exhalation burned her collarbone.

  Her nose brushed his hair, untamed by pomade, disordered now, soft, smelling faintly of soap. He whispered something against her skin, some murmur she would pay dearly to hear better—

  “Jane,” he said, and lifted his head, his beautiful face alight. He cupped her cheek, studying her, a heavy-lidded look that made her blush. Through her corsetry, through the layers of cotton and silk and wool between them, the muscled force of his hips still pressed into her. The frank boldness of it made her breathless. She could feel the hard prod of his desire. It made her belly tighten, her lips part.

  “Touch me,” she said.

  His gaze dropped to her lips, her throat, the swell of her breasts over the low-cut neckline. She felt exposed to him, but without shame. Seen. Her breasts felt tight, aching as he dipped his head to kiss the valley between them.

  His clever hand skated down her body as he nuzzled her, his palm brushing her waist, then sliding lower yet. A firm, unhesitating touch, from a man who no longer doubted. She gasped as he palmed her hips, his grip closing on the fullness of her buttocks.

  His liberties triggered a realization, wordless, delightful. So much of a body could be touched! She slipped her hands between them, returning the favor. He was taut, solid, densely muscled. So different. She felt beneath his waistcoat, gripped his lean sides. His bell
y contracted sharply as he sucked in a breath. Touch now wed with memory; she could feel the bands of muscle that she had seen in the bath and in her bed one morning, so long ago it seemed. Through the cloth, her thumb found the indentation of his navel.

  “Jane.” An urgent, raw note in his voice. He kissed her again, even more deeply, so her head bumped back into the spines of books. His palm quickly cupped the crown of her head, an apology that did not interrupt or distract from the matter at hand.

  Eyes closed, she let her hand slip farther. Past the placket of his trousers, until she found a tumescent swelling. He groaned into her mouth. Then his grip found her waist; he pulled her away from the wall and swung her over to a nearby sofa, laying her down before he knelt on the carpet beside her.

  “If you still have doubts,” he said hoarsely, “I am going to make you forget them now.”

  She did not know what he meant, only that the vow made her feel . . . luxurious, like a queen. Someone to be attended to, served and persuaded. He was watching her face so closely, his concentration lending him a severe, ascetic look. He was waiting, she realized, for her assent.

  She stretched her arms over her head and gave him a smile that felt foreign and wild.

  * * *

  Since the moment he had woken from near-death in his parents’ house, Crispin had felt like an adventurer robbed of sea legs. Revelations had come as unrelentingly as waves, and each new surprise had unbalanced him. No safety ropes but one: the woman who stretched out before him now, and gave him a smile of such unabashed invitation that it bypassed his brain and raised an animal instinct that felt raw and primeval.

  His memories held no match for it. Youthful fumblings with flirts in Cambridge, uninhibited tavern girls, and one wise, jaded courtesan . . . He remembered the mechanics of seduction but not this driving, raw hunger, which felt desperate, driven, bottomless.

  Ambition had always made him anxious. The prospect of failure was so clear. But as he leaned down to kiss her, fear was some distant myth. He would brook no failure now. He would stay here beside her as long as it took to realize his aim.

  Her lips were soft and damp. He had made them so. She already wore his mark. There were more marks to leave. The night was young, the door locked, and he did not give a damn who might discover so.

  He laid his hand on her shoulder, massaging lightly, and kissed her until he felt the tension ease from her. Until, with a soundless sigh that warmed his lips, she settled more deeply into the velvet cushions of the sofa. Only then did he allow himself to kiss his way down her smooth throat, his hand to slip down her bare arm so their fingers entangled.

  There was a beast inside him. It strained at the leash, inflamed by her poreless, flawless skin. Perfume of lavender, and beneath it, traces of her natural scent, which she scrubbed away in her morning bath, such a deep injustice; he would keep her in bed for days, simply breathing her. Tracery of veins beneath the fragile skin of her chest, a map for his mouth, to be traced with his tongue.

  Soft sounds, the rustle of silk as she stirred restlessly beneath him. He slipped his hands around her waist, found the buttons of her gown. Whence came this dexterity? For once, he felt a deep gratitude to his forgotten self, for having mastered the art of undressing a woman.

  The ball gown molded to her like a second skin, but the silk was soft, pliant; once released of its fastenings, it became a conspirator. With the flat of his palm pressed to her back, he raised her off the cushions—no, he did not wish her help. He kissed her again until she relaxed into his grip, then coaxed the shimmering silk down to her waist.

  His fingers flexed. The beast had claws, bottomless hunger. Such a fragile slip of fabric separated them now. He took a sharp, hard breath. Discipline. The transparent lawn conspired with him, too. Her breasts were full, her nipples large and dark. He bent and took one in his mouth, tasting her through the fabric.

  She made a mewling noise, and twisted in his arms. He closed his teeth gently around her, then used his tongue again. Yes, he could make her whimper. What other aspiration had ever been so sweetly rewarded? As he sucked her, he reached down her body, found the edge of the crushed crinoline, and gathered it slowly, collapsing it in handfuls.

  Inch by inch. She tossed beneath him, her face flushed. Her chignon was tumbling down; curls sprang out around her, reaching for him, stroking his brow, brushes of encouragement. He closed his hand on a stockinged calf. Her flexing foot hit his shoulder. He caught it, held it there, kissed her ankle, tracked up to the hidden cove behind her knee.

  She gasped. “Crispin—”

  The name itself felt unfamiliar suddenly. He had been so concerned for so long about what he had forgotten, had guarded so jealously all that he still remembered. But in this moment, none of it meant anything. Only this: the feel of her, her submission to him, the faith that had guided her to lie down beneath him, to place trust in him, this beast who loomed over her with the intention to devour.

  The stocking fastened above her knee, but the beast had clever teeth, and undid it in a moment. Beneath the lace cuffs of her drawers, her thigh felt plump, quivering; he pressed his mouth hard against it. He would provide its surety. He would be her balance.

  Through the slit in her drawers, he palmed her.

  “Ah!” She started to sit upright—fell back again. Their eyes met. Hers looked startled, luminously amazed. Then, deliberately, she let her head fall back onto the cushion. Her unwavering gaze spoke a silent but unequivocal permission.

  He took another deep breath, another sharp grip on self-control.

  Inch by inch. Still looking into her eyes, ferociously studying each twitch of her mouth, each moment when her lips parted and her lashes flickered wildly, he learned his way. His fingertips traced lightly, until her hips suddenly jerked.

  There.

  He stroked her, once, twice. Her eyes came open again, widened. “I don’t—I don’t think—”

  He pressed harder, leaning forward to capture her mouth. “Don’t think,” he growled.

  She writhed beneath him, then cried out, her thighs clamping around his hand. He swallowed her shallow gasps and kissed her more deeply yet. Consuming her.

  Her hand found his hair. Clutching hard to hold his mouth to hers.

  As if he would let her go.

  At last, she sagged back, releasing him. His hand did not wish to move. He forced it back down her thigh, around her knee, which caught his attention; the warmth there, secret, reserved only for him. Her ankle, so trim and narrow; another secret, which he kissed once more. Then, very gently, he helped her upright, kissing his way across her chest and shoulder to her back. Her buttons had undergone a sea change, becoming troublesome; he fumbled with them. His hands were shaking.

  He kissed his way back around her. Cupping her elbows, he helped her to stand. The cage crinoline fell into place—some voluptuary had designed it, surely, for the steel bands provocatively framed each erotic detail: the rip in Jane’s stocking. The flushed skin of her thighs. The tender dimples in her knees.

  But once her skirts fell over the hoops, she looked again the picture of decorum—save her hair. It spiraled wildly all around her.

  He stooped to retrieve a discarded hairpin. When she reached for it, he caught her hand and kissed her palm.

  An unsteady laugh came from her. Husky. It made his breath catch, his cock throb. He could not go into public in this state.

  “I can’t be seen like this,” she whispered—her tone shy and pleased. She touched her hair. “Everyone will know.”

  The notion sparked some deep, primal gratification in him. Yes, let them see. He felt . . . exorcised, cleansed, light on his feet, omnipotent. Let them all see. This was his wife.

  But she would not like that. He would spare her the gossip.

  “Stay here,” he said, “and I’ll go fetch your cloak.” It was hooded, and would conceal her.

  As he started to turn away, he caught how she crossed her arms and shifted her weight, a flicker
of uncertainty passing over her face.

  No. None of that. He caught her by the waist and kissed her again soundly. “We’ll go home,” he murmured into her hair. “I can’t share you any longer.”

  And after a moment, her arms came around him, and he felt the full, sweet weight of her against his body again. “Yes,” she murmured. “I would like that tremendously.”

  * * *

  What had she done? Jane would not allow herself to think on it. She was done with analyzing, plotting, calculating the cost. In the carriage, she leaned against Crispin and kept her mind carefully blank. She filled herself with the scent of him; she kept her nose in the thick disorder of his soft black hair. If this was a spell, then let it remain unbroken. She would not think ahead, either. Fearlessness had brought her here. It could carry her through the night.

  But as the brougham pulled up outside Crispin’s home, her spell fractured. Something was awry. All the windows were lit from top to bottom, and as they stepped out onto the curb, the front door opened to reveal Cusworth shifting his weight in the doorway like a dog straining at the leash.

  She exchanged a look with Crispin, who took her arm and hurried her up the steps.

  Inside, Cusworth launched into an explanation as the porter took their coats. “One of the maids heard a crash, sir. When she went to investigate, she interrupted a—a ruffian! He escaped out the window. It was only half an hour ago. I had a note dispatched to you, but I expect you were already en route. The entire household is in an uproar.”

  Crispin took her arm, drawing her behind his body as he looked beyond Cusworth to the stairs. “Has the rest of the house been searched?”

  “Yes, yes,” Cusworth said. “At once, sir. No other signs of disturbance save in your study.”

  “I’ll take Mrs. Burke to her rooms, and join you there momentarily.”

  “No,” Jane said. “I’ll come with you.”

  “Your room bolts on all sides,” Crispin said tightly. “And it’s a sight too high for anyone to go leaping through windows—”