“Won’t you take off your mask?” He was standing very close to her as she poured their drinks, willing her hands not to shake.
She wanted to take a step away but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d unsettled her. “No.”
“I’m not likely to know you. I don’t travel in tonnish circles.”
“Oh come now, Dr. Burnham.” She turned and moved to sit on the settee, beckoning him to join her. “Social reform is becoming quite fashionable in certain circles.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m part of the ton. I’m solidly middle class. Raised in Guildford, in Surrey, by my aunt and uncle. My uncle owned a public house. He pulled a lot of pints to scrape up enough money to send me to Edinburgh to university.” He sat, positioning himself very close to her. “And here I am talking about money. How very common of me.”
“You grew up in a public house, yet you’re a social reformer? How does that work?”
He lifted the glass she handed him in a mock toast. “I haven’t focused my efforts on temperance.”
“Edinburgh! That must have been an adventure!”
“I was quite intent on rising above my station.” He spoke harshly, his tone at odds with the self-deprecating speech, as if he were mocking her. Nay, as if he were mocking the whole society they were part of. Setting his glass down with a thud, he removed his gloves and shrugged out of his coat, leaning back against the settee and stretching, as if he were marking his territory, throwing down a gauntlet of some sort—as if he hated her for her position in society.
She forced a gay smile. “Why all the trouble and expense of studying medicine if you were going to turn to reform?”
“I became a physician because I wanted to help people. I had the idea that I’d move to the country, become a village doctor. But after I finished school, I was invited to take over the practice of an older doctor here in town. He was the grandfather of a schoolmate of mine and nearing retirement. It’s not something I foresaw, becoming a ton doctor, given that I wasn’t a member of the Royal College of Physicians. But I wanted to pay my uncle back, and it seemed a perfect opportunity. I told myself I’d work in London for a time, make my fortune, and then get out.” He took a swig of his drink and barked a bitter laugh. “A year later, I was being paid ungodly sums to prop up swooning ladies and to treat aristocratic rakes with the clap.”
“I suppose even aristocratic rakes and swooning ladies need physicians.”
“So do those unfortunate souls working themselves to death in workhouses. So do children begging on street corners for a few morsels to fill their empty bellies. So do the weary girls selling themselves in the rookeries.” He set down his glass with a thump on a side table, then turned back to her with angry eyes. “London opened my eyes. It’s extremely difficult to turn your back on so much suffering once you’ve been made aware of it, don’t you find?”
There was hostility in his tone, and she knew he was baiting her. His little speech had done its job—she felt a pang of guilt when she thought of her gilded life. What must he think of her, of this place? But what could she do but play her part? Pretending was her one great skill. “I see,” she said, affecting a slight air of boredom. “So you gave up doctoring in favor of reform.”
He sighed, and the spark of rage she’d seen seemed to go out. “As it happened, I came into some money at that time. It seemed provident, so I gave up my practice. The windfall allowed me to turn my attention more decidedly toward reform.” He picked up his glass again and took a deep swallow of his brandy. She watched the small muscles in his neck move as he drank.
“Well, how fortunate for us that you have not focused your efforts on temperance.” She raised her glass. “To reform. And to you, Dr. Burnham.”
He raised his glass and dipped his head, long dark lashes sweeping closed for a moment. He truly was beautiful. “And if not temperance, where do your particular interests lie in terms of reform?” she asked, leaning forward slightly, surprised to find herself genuinely curious about his answer.
“The Society has tackled a variety of noble topics, but my own interest is primarily in child welfare. Education, the plight of children in the cotton mills—and even more so, in other industries, where the Factory Act doesn’t reach. I’d like to bring some form of education to those children.”
She wanted to know more. What had he seen? What had driven him to this crusading life? Amidst the questions swirling in her mind, another one arose: when was the last time she had been this interested in something that mattered? “Tell me more.”
He smiled, a real smile this time, untouched by the righteous rage she’d seen flashes of earlier. And then he began to talk. He told her about heartbreaking research trips to St. Giles’. About the worst abuses he’d seen in the mills—children caned until they bled, humiliated and starved. About trying to identify and approach sympathetic members of Parliament. Then there was the runaway success of his first pamphlet, and now his unceasing efforts to expand the scope of the Society’s mission beyond just the reform of the Poor Laws. He was growing increasingly frustrated that the Society’s members, thrilled by the success of that first pamphlet, had made him the group’s writer, when what he really wanted to do was be out in the world, actively helping.
“Then why not use your medical training to help the children you speak of?” she asked. “If, as you said, they need doctors more than anyone?”
“I do some occasional doctoring at Mr. Coram’s foundling hospital, but the problems we face are bigger than that. One doctor can only do so much. Real change will come when men work collectively, as maddening as the process can be sometimes. Social ills need to be measured. Quantified. Debated. Only then will we be able to begin searching for solutions.”
“Spoken like a true scientist.”
“Thank you.” He quirked a smile that softened his whole face, which had grown tense as he recounted his tale. “I think.”
“The other night I thought perhaps you were here to reform us.” He looked away and suddenly found something interesting on the floor that required his attention. “Aha!” She slapped her hand on the settee’s white velvet cushion. “You were here to reform us! Along what lines? The spread of disease? Or merely the inherent sinfulness of the place?”
“I am not motivated by God or by sin. God is irrelevant.”
“Isn’t that an unusual opinion for a reformer?”
“No, not really. Some of us believe we share a duty to one another, independent of any theology. That a better, more just, society is possible.”
What an intriguing—and vexing—man. “I see. But you haven’t answered my question.” He was still gazing at the floor. “Are you here to reform us?” And what if he was? Why did the prospect pique her so? It wasn’t as if she really belonged here.
He looked up, immobilizing her with the green pools that were his eyes. A furrow appeared between them. “I don’t know why I’m here.”
There was a long pause. Catharine honestly did not know what to say. She couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.
“I came here last week to investigate for the Society. You’re right about that. They are undertaking an ambitious study of poverty: its origins, its expressions, the many forms it takes. I came here to assess whether it was reasonable to include a section on prostitution in our report.”
“Madame Cherie’s is certainly not an expression of poverty. Do you know how many cases of champagne we go through in a month? That’s absurd!” She tried to keep her tone light, but she felt defensive, sensitive to criticism on behalf of the other girls.
“Is it? When you asked Jessica whether she did this work because she had to or because she wanted to, what did she say?”
It was Catharine’s turn to shift uncomfortably. She didn’t like him knowing she’d thought about what he said, much less that she’d been inspired to ask after others in the house. “Well, I am not poor.”
“It would appear not, but I don’t really know
anything about you, do I?”
But he did know her, that was the amazing thing. She couldn’t recall having had a conversation about anything real, about anything that truly mattered, in years. And he had her pondering thorny social questions, thinking about her own shortcomings. She was about to open her mouth to protest when she thought about it from his point of view. He had just told her the history of his life. She had told him nothing in return—nothing true. All he knew was that she was a viscountess posing as a lightskirt.
Could she show him something real? She thought about long days filled with idle amusements, fripperies, dalliances. James Burnham, crusading doctor turned social reformer, would look at her life and find nothing redeeming about it, except perhaps her work as a spy. Though it was considered a distasteful, even shameful, vocation, she thought he might understand Blackstone’s sentiment that someone had to do it. But of course the one part of her life that he might respect was the same part he could never know about.
He must have interpreted her silence as a signal that the conversation was over, for he sighed and reached out to lift a lock of hair that had escaped her chignon, letting it slide through his hand and fall back down onto her shoulder. The briefest of touches, and his fingers had only made contact with the hair of her wig, but her scalp tingled nonetheless. “If you won’t tell me about yourself, tell me about your husband. He would have been the Viscount…?”
She hesitated. Telling him much about Charles would mean giving him enough information to track down her identity. “He died in Portugal, under Wellesley.”
Surprise flickered across his face. “He was an officer?”
To say more would set him off on a search for the viscountess widow of a British Army officer, so she merely gave a little shrug.
“I’m sorry,” he said, mistaking her silence for grief.
“It was a long time ago.” It was her standard answer when presented with an expression of condolence. What else to say? That she was sorry, too? That she missed her husband, but perhaps not as much as she should? That she was quite content with her life as it was now, buffered as she was by rank and widowhood?
“I’m not sure what that has to do with anything.” He reached out and gently touched her chain where it curved around her neck and began its journey down into her décolletage. His finger barely brushed her skin, but once again, she felt a humming beneath the surface. “They say time heals all, but in matters of the heart, I’m not convinced that’s the case.”
Was it because they were in a house of ill repute, where the usual rules that governed social interactions had been overturned, that they were able to speak like this, so directly and without pretense? Or was it something about Dr. Burnham himself that shattered polite conventions? “It’s probably hard for you to believe, but I followed the drum,” she said. “I and a handful of other officers’ wives lived with the battalion. I spent a year with him.” She spoke quickly, grateful for the opportunity to tell him something real, needing to tell him something besides the mixture of lies and half-truths that were her stock in trade. “It was a good life, if one could forget the war itself, which of course one couldn’t. And the cold. And the half rations.” She rolled her eyes and sat back against the settee. “That sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? By any objective measure, it was miserable.”
“Not ridiculous.”
He understood. Catharine closed her eyes rather than allow them to fill with tears. He grasped her chain, and she forced herself to be still as he worked it between his fingers. But his hand did not remain there long. It traveled to the hollow at the base of her throat, finally making firm contact with her skin. No doubt he could feel the frantic fluttering of her pulse there, so close to the surface. Eyes still closed, she took a shaky breath, allowing the soft stroking to consume all her attention. After a few hypnotic moments, a warm, wet mouth replaced the hand. She gasped and opened her eyes. His head was below her chin, and her hands flew to his soft dark hair, intending to push him away.
He looked up, met her eyes, and whispered, “Shhh.” His hands snaked up, found hers, and gently pulled them down by her sides. He continued to watch her as he slowly, methodically, peeled her long evening gloves down her forearms. It seemed to take an eternity for him to pull the snug fabric away from each finger. When, with a final tug on each glove, he succeeded, she had to swallow a cry at the shock of being exposed. Cool air hit the newly bare skin even as it heated from the inside, warmed by the searing intensity of his gaze. After a few moments of silence, his hands returned to hers, skin-to-skin this time. His hands were warm, slightly calloused, and insistent as they pressed her own firmly into the settee on either side of her. The firelight danced on his face, making his skin glow. They stared at each other.
She had rules. And this was against them. This was not the kind of encounter she permitted, either here at Madame Cherie’s or in her own home. He and his social reformers had their codes of ethics, their rules of conduct, and she had hers. Foremost among them was that she was her own mistress. If she chose to give herself to a man, she did so willingly, but never permanently, and she never surrendered control over the situation. Right here, right now, she had no earthly idea what was going to happen next. And that was unacceptable.
He continued to gently rest his hands atop hers. This was her chance to pull back, to remind him of his place, of her rules. Her hands, pale even against the white velvet of the settee, and almost completely covered by his larger, tanned ones, had almost disappeared.
She said nothing and looked back up. He gave an almost imperceptible nod and then lowered his head again, his mouth returning to the same spot on her chest. She heaved a deep breath as his whiskered chin abraded her skin while his lips brushed her collarbones.
Those lips were softer than she could have imagined, gentle and unhurried. She’d never given the area between her neck and her breasts much thought, other than to note it as a neutral, serviceable base for the ruby she wore in regular life—and, at Madame’s, for the longer chain that hid the signature stone. The erotic potential of the area was now being made exquisitely clear by Dr. Burnham’s ministrations.
He began a slow circuit, methodically kissing and laving in ever widening circles, even going so far as to carefully move her chain aside to access the skin underneath. A part of her fuzzy mind registered that he was taking care not to lift the chain to reveal the stone. Each place he touched grew tingly, hot. His pace made her clearly, almost painfully, aware of his every move, his every breath.
Oh, but he was going so maddeningly slowly! When she lifted her hands to his head to urge him onward, upward, he stopped abruptly. She felt the loss, cold air against her damp skin.
“This isn’t right, is it?” he rasped, looking up at her.
Not right? Her mind struggled to detach itself from the wondrous sensations he was arousing in her body. She didn’t know if he was referring to her “rules”—for certainly this contravened them—or if he meant the comment as a more general observation on the immorality of the situation.
As if he sensed her confusion, he said, “This does not please you.”
“Ha!” She gasped a sharp, involuntary laugh. The thought was so absurd that she couldn’t help herself. But clearly he’d misinterpreted her response, for he pulled back, putting more distance between them, his face flushed, his lips moist. She could see the dark shadow of his evening whiskers. Oh, but she wanted to feel them scratching against her again, so agonizing and slow. Here he was, giving her yet another opportunity to call a halt to the proceedings. That she should stop this now, she was well aware. But she simply could not break the spell. Leaving one hand lying flat on the settee, where he had so decidedly placed it moments earlier, she let her other find one of his, and brought it to cover her resting hand, trying to cue him to pick up matters where they’d left off when he’d pressed her hands down on the white velvet. “This pleases me,” she whispered, with a calmness that belied the agitated rhythm of her heart.
/> Following her lead, he placed his other hand on her free one. His stare held her, frozen, until, as last time, he seemed content that he’d obtained a silent assent. Then, looking down, he stared directly and unapologetically at her décolletage. Her corset did its job remarkably well, holding up and pushing out her breasts. Though her bosom wasn’t overly large, she’d had the stays designed for maximum lift, deciding against the short corsets that were in fashion in favor of full boning that went all the way down to her waist. Shifting a little, she felt self-conscious under his ardent stare. His hands, still resting atop hers, pressed down once more, but still he seemed uncertain.
Why did he not touch her? Was she going to break her rules, to shatter them utterly, in order for this man to simply stare at her, to render her the immobile object of his searing gaze? She had a feeling that any suggestions or exhortations from her would be met with the same intense but silent regard. It appeared that James Burnham had a plan, and that she was not privy to it.
When she’d grown still, willing the breasts he continued to stare at not to heave too conspicuously, he looked back up, heated eyes fixing on her own. Not knowing what was in store was an unfamiliar, unpleasant sensation, but it paled against the prospect of not finding out at all. So she kept still, stared back at her tormentor, having learned that this stopping and starting was part of the measured, seductive game he was playing.
He surprised her with the slow blossoming of a smile. It lit up his face even as it changed it. The hunter’s eyes were replaced with those of a kind, compassionate man, someone who’d devoted his life to the service of others. Like the private smile he’d flashed when she first saw him, it shook her because it breached the conventions that governed interaction in a place like Madame Cherie’s. Well, not breached exactly, more like it stood outside them as if they were all playing a game he took part in only selectively. She hadn’t known it was possible to play the game and yet not play it.
Viscountess of Vice Page 6
