Rowena came instantly awake, murmuring her thanks and motioning the woman to place a tray holding a steaming pot of tea on the table at the foot of the bed. She pulled the sheets to her bare shoulders, aware that she was clothed only in her shift. Accustomed to informality with the servants at Montfort, she smiled brightly at the maid, who was busy opening the drapes and smoothing the counterpane.
The bedchamber was of grand proportions, its wide four-poster enveloped in a gold embroidered canopy, the furnishings glossed to a high sheen. As with the rest of the town house, the atmosphere was cold, as though the walls and rooms had never heard laughter, the footfall of children, or the barking of dogs. It was not a home, merely a residence where Rushford chose to abide when he was in London. As she made to leave, the maid bobbed a curtsy and pointed to the smooth, ivory vellum on a silver salver by the breakfast tray. “For you, my lady,” she said before gathering up the tray and disappearing through the door.
Rowena threw back the covers and sat cross-legged, reaching for the note and quickly scanning the contents. A carriage would take her in an hour’s time to her new apartments in Knightsbridge. Rushford, it came as no surprise, had had his solicitors working quickly to ensconce his latest mistress in her new home.
Mistress. Wide and largely unsupervised reading had taught Rowena the meaning of the term—the female lover of a man who is not married to her. A mistress was a kept woman, a courtesan, showered with extravagant clothes and jewels in exchange for sexual pleasures. A mistress existed in the shadows of the demimonde, expected to be educated and adventurous, a companion for theater, certain ballrooms, and, of course, the boudoir.
A strange concept to learn, however secondhand, in a household of spinsters, Rowena considered. She moved over to the washstand by the dressing room screen. In the eyes of the villagers living in the Cheviot Hills, Montfort was a grand fortress that kept safe three women, living without men, who managed well for themselves. No husbands, no brothers, no uncles, no amorous protectors. Rowena splashed cold water on her face from the washbasin, feeling heat and color spring into her cheeks. Too young and too wrapped up in herself, she had never looked beyond the surface of the pastoral existence that Meredith had created for them. Their aunt had never spoken of her past, their parentage, or the quiet life she had deliberately chosen for them to lead. They could well have traveled the continent, been launched into society, resided part of the year in London. Rowena now realized that those possibilities would only have invited the attention of Montagu Faron.
Her hands shaking, she dried her face with a fine linen towel, then quickly donned her corset, neatly laid out over the dressing screen, followed by crinolines and the velvet dress with its difficult hooks. Mrs. Heppelwhite had served as her dressing maid, but she would now fend for herself. Mercifully, as she was not going to be going about in public, the yellow wig could wait.
An hour later, she stood in the graciously appointed apartments Rushford had arranged for her. She might have expected a garish heap suitable for a fallen woman, but the series of rooms on the second floor of a Palladian mansion was exquisite. With a private entrance to the side, away from the prying eyes of Brandsome Street, marble steps led up to a wide, flat terrace, surrounded by a pale stone balustrade. Inside, the main salon was large with a high ceiling of cream medallions on a lemon background, and walls that were hung with shimmering peach-colored silk. The room held several wide divans, low tables and was fitted with cherry-wood paneling. The overall feel was of decadent opulence, entirely appropriate for its purpose, Rowena decided.
“All is well?” Mr. Smythson, Rushford’s solicitor, asked attentively.
“Yes, thank you,” she said, trying not to be intimidated by the man with his high starched collar and dignified air. They had made small talk about the weather and the environs, just south of Knightsbridge. It was not too rarified and yet not too louche, the buildings well tended, the gardens neat and tidy with their rows of hedges interspersed by rose bushes.
Rowena glided across the marble floors to inspect two bedrooms, one the master chamber with an oversized bed that required a footstool to scale its high mattress and with walls obscured by ornately framed mirrors on every side. And in one corner, next to the dressing room door, stood her small trunk, delivered as promised.
The bathroom was charming, with a copper tub and porcelain washstand, and again, a repetition of the same ornate mirrors, reflecting every possible angle—. Rowena’s face flushed, overcome with a sudden exquisite mortification. She scarcely recognized herself any longer. Rushford had inveigled himself into her thoughts and emotions in a way she could scarcely explain. She had behaved outrageously, even for her, allowing herself to give in to desire for a stranger, a man whose life and experiences were far beyond her ken.
The chamber was suddenly stifling, and she turned decisively back to the main salon where Smythson waited patiently for her. “If all is in order, then, Miss Warren,” he said, using the alias given him, “I shall take my leave presently. I should like to inform you that a cook and a maid have been retained as well. If they do not meet your approval, simply let me know and I shall make other arrangements. Permit me to add,” he said, turning his hat in his hands, “that Lord Rushford has asked me to engage a modiste on your behalf who should be arriving”—he glanced at the ornate ormolu clock on the fireplace mantel—“one hour hence.”
Rowena nodded her thanks, although not in the least grateful. She wished never to be beholden to Rushford in any way, and the thought of the expenses he was incurring made her distinctly uncomfortable. “Lord Rushford is too generous. He does nothing by half measures, it would seem,” she said.
“Indeed,” said Smythson, often referred to as the “vault” by those who knew how much he prided himself on his discretion and faultless service to two generations of Rushfords. Impeccably dressed in gray trousers and severely cut jacket and waistcoat, he had produced a rabbit out of a hat for Lord Rushford on a minute’s notice. There was no hint of censure in his deferential gaze, which emboldened Rowena to ask, “Lord Rushford’s parents—do they reside here in London or in the country?”
Smythson pursed his lips, spinning the edge of his hat in his hands. “I’m afraid, Miss Warren,” he said reluctantly, “they passed away many years ago, along with the elder son, when Lord Rushford was at Eton. A fever took them,” he added with appropriate solemnity.
Rowena felt a stab of sympathy and then quickly considered posing another question to the solicitor, driven by a hunger to learn more about Lord Rushford. “And no other siblings?”
Smythson shook his head. “Regretfully, no.”
They were both orphans of a sort, thought Rowena, finding the correspondence intriguing. Neither she nor Rushford had grown to adulthood having known their parents. The ghost of an idea coalesced, and she stopped on the threshold, the impulse to ask more questions strong. Smythson cleared his throat once more, however, recovering his full legal hauteur and clearly reluctant to disclose any more than necessary pertaining to his employer. “If you are finished with your inspection, Miss Warren, I have further instructions,” he said with a hint of awkwardness in his tone. “If I might suggest that I accompany you to the library.”
“As you wish.” She followed his tall narrow back to a rose and ivory jewelbox of a room with its shelves only half filled with books. A feminine escritoire sat in the corner upon which rested three heavy boxes, embossed with what she took, upon closer inspection, to be the Rushford crest.
“Oh, no, this is not necessary, Mr. Smythson,” she said, understanding dawning. “Totally unnecessary, truly,” she tried again, her protests trailing away.
“I have my instructions,” he continued, his hands making surprisingly quick work of the intricate locks on the first box. A choker of pearls, like rich cream, nestled in the silk lining. Smythson efficiently peeled back the silk to reveal another tray upon which lay a bracelet of rubies and emeralds. Then a diamond-studded pendant. A king’s ransom
, thought Rowena, blanching.
“Yours to use for the time being,” Smythson explained. “Upon Lord Rushford insistence, Miss Warren.” He added with an approximation of kindness, “No worries, of course. Important family jewels are not amongst the sampling here.” Naturally, Rowena thought, Rushford’s mistress could not be seen wearing paste and borrowed gowns. We must not arouse suspicion.
Soon thereafter Smythson departed, having locked the boxes away in a recessed drawer behind the porcelain fireplace of the library, leaving Rowena little time to agonize over her next challenge: the modiste. Madame Curzon and her coterie of seamstresses invaded the apartments like a tempest. Instantly, Rowena longed for the warmth of Mrs. Heppelwhite, who had not regarded her with thinly arched brows and clenched teeth after ordering her to disrobe and stand in front of the bedchamber’s many gilded mirrors. “I don’t require too much, Madame Curzon, a few gowns, perhaps a day dress,” Rowena began before she was asked to stand on a hastily procured footstool to be surrounded by mirrors reflecting her from every possible angle.
Madame studiously ignored her words, ordering her acolytes to produce bolts of fabrics ranging from the softest silks to gossamer satins, which she then began draping around Rowena’s shoulders. “I do not like overly fussy styles of dress,” Rowena said as her words were muffled by a swath of lace descending over her head and neck, “and I do not wish to incur too great an expense, preferring a style that is somewhat understated.”
Madame knit her brow, her fingers covering her mouth at the abomination. “Impossible. No great expense? Lord Rushford would have my head,” she said, her French accent faltering. Her eyes narrowed, making a quick reassessment of her newest client. “You are young, alors. Part of your charm, this hesitation.” She took a step back, a birdlike figure in black bombazine. “However, we do not wish you to be lost in a cloud of innocence, not for a man with the sophisticated tastes of Lord Rushford.”
Rowena stiffened at the implication, wondering not for the first time about Lord Rushford’s late duchess. A beautiful woman, without doubt, one who could hold the attention of a complex and overwhelmingly masculine man. She saw again Rushford’s bedchamber, and the small painting of the woman with the dark eyes and tumble of hair, which she had held in her hand.
“Was she very beautiful?” she asked, surprised that she had spoken aloud.
Madame quickly replaced her frown with a convincing smile, unwilling to risk alienating a nervous young woman who was not long out of the schoolroom, clearly, and yet one with such promise. “No need to concern yourself with what is past, mademoiselle,” she said with the pragmatism that came naturally to a businesswoman who had fled East London decades earlier, never to return. Rushford was known for his discretion and it was not for Madame to tell tales out of school. Better to calm the waters. “What is beauty when one has youth and spirit on her side?” she asked with forced bonhomie.
Unbidden, the image of the delicate oval danced in Rowena’s vision. A woman of remarkable beauty with shining dark eyes, a mobile mouth, a luxuriance of wheat gold hair. Rushford’s duchess.
“The past is the past,” Madame Curzon said, steepling her fingers together as she contemplated Rowena from another vantage point. She took a step back, determined to change the subject to her benefit. “I envision several day dresses, perhaps in oyster and gray satin, trimmed with pearls. Perhaps a champagne tulle for evening. So wonderful with any coloring, whether you decide to go au naturel or blond,” she enthused, instructing one of her acolytes to produce a bolt of peau de soie, which she then began to pin around Rowena’s waist. Her hands fluttered around her shoulders, gesturing her eagerness. “Such a lovely, lithe figure, such a tiny waist and youthful bosom. We will ensure all the bodices are cut accordingly, eh? We would like to keep the illusion of the maiden but with some mystery and temptation also.”
Rowena acquiesced, at this point almost convincing herself that Rushford was correct. She would need the appropriate armor to do battle if she wished to carry off her deception successfully. Despite her determination, she could not escape the sense of doom slowly settling around her, as heavy as the emerald brocade Madame Curzon was wrapping around her shoulders and neck. Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to finish with the fitting, to flee the elaborate apartments and the charade of Miss Frances Warren, Lord Rushford’s young mistress.
She heard herself saying, “I believe five or so garments will be sufficient, Madame, three day dresses and two evening gowns.” The room seemed to spin around her, a kaleidoscope of colors and textures.
Madame clucked disapprovingly, waggling her ringed fingers in protest. “You are young and naïve, my dear. Lord Rushford is a wealthy man and requires that his mistress be appropriately gowned, if she is to appear on his arm.” She added with a shrewd look, “And if one is to seek a man’s approval and keep his attentions, perhaps there are a few lessons that a young woman would seek to learn.” Bustling with renewed efficiency, she produced two bolts of the finest lace. “Valenciennes, bien sur. You and Lord Rushford will adore the chemises and corsets we will assemble for you.”
Entirely unnecessary, Rowena wanted to say while holding still for the couturier and her assistants, who spun the wisps of fabric and measuring tape around her bosom and waist. She closed her eyes, feeling like the fragile, porcelain dolls she had never played with as a child.
“I could not agree with you more, Madame Curzon,” a deep voice said. Rowena opened her eyes, a soft chill sweeping across her now exposed skin. She stared at Rushford with mute shock, watching as he sank into a peach-colored divan at the foot of the bed, casually loosening the snowy cravat at his neck. “My darling,” he added with a raised brow, “I would heed Madame’s advice at all costs.”
Madame puffed up her chest like a guinea hen, swelling with pride, directing her seamstresses to produce more of their lacy offerings. Murmuring enthusiastic statements about mademoiselle’s beauty and youth, she and her acolytes danced around Rowena, who was clad in only her chemise, corset, and white stockings.
Choking out a perfunctory greeting, Rowena wished she could close her eyes and disappear from sight, vanish in a puff of smoke, spirit herself away to Montfort in a return to her careless, oblivious youth. Was it really so long ago that she had spent mornings riding Dragon until they were both breathless? Or played chess with Meredith and then spent the afternoon with Julia, reading her latest poems while her sister busied herself with her daguerreotypes?
She wished desperately she could leave now, trying in vain to ignore Rushford’s presence several feet away from her and the dangerous emotions he aroused. Aware of Rushford’s eyes following her every move, she longed for her velvet skirts and stiff bodice, discarded over the foot of the bed.
Sensitive to the growing tension in the room, Madame Curzon, no stranger to the desires of men and their new mistresses, suddenly began murmuring apologies, declaring that they had finished for the day and would deliver the first of the garments in two days’ time. “For you, my lord, especially,” she crooned to Rushford before clapping her hands to her seamstresses and turning on her heel.
The double doors closed decisively, taking the tempest with them, but Rowena did not know whether to welcome the reprieve or hurl insults at Rushford. “What are you doing here?” She had all but forgotten that she was almost naked, one stocking-clad leg on the footstool and the other hovering over the floor.
He shrugged nonchalantly. “I do believe I have every right to visit my mistress, at any time of day or night.”
Rowena looked frantically for her clothes, conscious of her plain cotton undergarments; the bright lights of the room were unforgivably revealing. Unapologetically, Rushford took in the whiteness of her skin, the flash of her backbone and hips, as she turned around to face away from him. “Don’t be ridiculous. Once and for all, this is a ruse,” she hissed, refusing to turn around and face him. “I am no more your mistress than the man in the moon.”
“It’s a trif
le late for modesty, Rowena,” he said casually. “Or would you prefer that I continue addressing your backside, perfect though it may be.”
“This is too much,” she said over her shoulder. “And entirely unnecessary. You knew very well that Madame Curzon had arrived to prepare my wardrobe.” Stretching out his long legs and crossing them at the ankles, he looked thoroughly relaxed, and it occurred to her that the situation was outrageously familiar to him. The Duchess, no doubt, and a phalanx of women before her had probably spent thousands of Rushford’s pounds on gowns and jewels, and in apartments much like this one.
“If we are to continue with this ruse, as you call it,” he continued, his eyes on her form reflected from every direction by the mirrors in the room, “we shall no doubt find ourselves in similarly intimate circumstances. So I should advise you not to reach for the smelling salts just yet.”
She raised her chin at him. “I have never had to avail myself of smelling salts in my life, Lord Rushford,” she snapped, making no effort to face him directly. “And I don’t intend to begin now.” To prove her assertion, she finally turned around to face him, slipping her arms into each sleeve of her chemise in an attempt to coax the fabric up to her neck.
She realized that Rushford was enjoying himself. He rose from the divan with an exaggerated sigh. She refused to take a step back, her hands gripping the fabric at her neck. “You are made of sterner stuff, I suppose,” he murmured, moving toward her until his knees touched the cushion of the footstool and the two were face to face. It was happening again, the awareness, the thickening tension in the air whenever they found themselves together. With excruciating slowness and an outrageous familiarity, Rushford slid the fabric of the chemise down, exposing her collarbone. Rowena did not protest, could not protest, when he bared her shoulders, helping the garment along until it slowed on the swell of her breasts.
“What are you doing?” she asked, when she should have asked, what are we doing?
The Darkest Sin Page 10
