Viscountess of Vice

by Jenny Holiday

  She did not pause before levering herself back up and sinking again, reveling in the feeling of fullness. She was rewarded with another animalistic moan. Hearing Dr. James Burnham, the orderly, science-minded moral paragon voicing his pleasure so freely only served to ratchet her own up to peaks she would have thought impossible. His hands tightened around her hips, and she heard her own cries join his as they began to find a single, blazing rhythm, she sinking down while he thrust up.

  She wanted to keep watching him, to return his searing, unbroken gaze, but she was too close to her edge and involuntarily squeezed her eyes shut as she teetered at the brink. With a deep, sharp thrust upward, he cried out once more, and she felt his heat spilling into her. She tumbled over the edge, too, explosions rocking her core. Her arms began to shake so that she could no longer hold herself up. Strong arms pulled her down and wrapped themselves tightly around her. She lay against his hard, damp chest, and he pulled her head alongside his mouth.

  Silent tears flowed beneath the mask.

  “Shhh,” he whispered against her ear. “I’ve got you.”

  They lay like that for a long time. The sound of his breath soothed her jangled nerves, and the feeling of his chest rising and falling lulled her. It was like being cradled in a gently swaying boat. She couldn’t remember ever falling asleep after lovemaking, not since her days with Charles in their tent under the stars. It wasn’t something she did—she preferred to leave her young men slumbering while she retreated to her sitting room to do battle with her memories. Now, though, with James’s hands lazily stroking her back, she could feel herself slipping over another edge, this time into a hazy, sated sleep.

  James, who prided himself on never falling into idleness, had spent the past hour simply lying on his bed, whiling away a potentially productive afternoon watching a woman sleep, breathing in her mysterious citrus scent. Lady V’s heady rose aroma was still in evidence, but it was very faint, as if the rose and the citrus had been swapped in intensity since he’d last seen her.

  He thought fleetingly about taking a peek under her mask, but just as he wouldn’t comb Mayfair looking for the ruby-wearing viscountess, he wouldn’t invade her privacy while she slept. Instead, he closed his own eyes and reveled in the feeling of this warm, lush woman in his arms. Sleep would not come, he knew, but he told himself to rest and not overthink the situation. He could already feel his mind slipping into assessment mode, sorting through what had happened, trying to extrapolate what would come next.

  “Mmm…” She stretched, and he had to shift again as she lifted her arms over her head, causing her breasts to rub against his chest. Rolling off him, she curled a little cat smile and then turned her head away, as if embarrassed. He resumed stroking her, though he could not reach her back now that she had rolled off him. Instead, his fingers gently moved aside her ruby pendant and stroked her collarbones.

  “Dr. Burnham.” Her voice was low, gravelly, full of sleep and satiation. “Say something.”

  “It’s James. And would you really have climbed the trellis?”

  “Pardon?” She laughed and propped herself up on her elbows.

  “If I had a meddling landlady. You asked earlier what floor I was on, and if I had a trellis you could climb. I would have enjoyed witnessing the attempt.”

  Her brow furrowed as she pondered the question. “I would have tried,” she said in an adorably serious tone. “I’m stronger than I look. And my mettle’s been tested on the battlefield!”

  “How did the thought even occur to you?” His hands moved lower, stroking the skin of her breastbone.

  “There’s a trellis outside my rooms at Madame Cherie’s. I always thought how romantic it would be for a suitor to climb it, if I had suitors, which, of course, I don’t. Not there, anyway. And of course, the trellis only goes up to the second floor.”

  She spoke quickly, as if she wanted to find her way out of the topic. He forced himself not to dwell on the idea of suitors visiting her at home, or worse, on the types of gentlemen she entertained at Madame Cherie’s. “I don’t have a trellis. But I do regret that I shall never be privy to the sight of you scrambling up it. Perhaps I should acquire one.”

  “James!” She batted his chest. “Say something else. Something real.” She sat all the way up, hugged her knees, and rested her chin on them. But for the mask, she looked like an innocent girl.

  “That was my first time.” It was out before he could think better of it.

  Her mouth formed into a perfect pink O, and her eyebrows shot up.

  He found he didn’t regret telling her. In fact, he wanted her to know that she’d been the first. He wasn’t embarrassed by it. It had been worth waiting for. She had been worth waiting for.

  “I can tell you’re the sort of woman who isn’t surprised by much, but I wager you’ve never encountered an…innocent gentleman before. Especially not one at the ripe old age of four-and-twenty.” He bunched a pillow up behind his head and propped himself up on the headboard, enjoying her shock.

  She closed her mouth and grinned. “You, my dear James, are a great many things, but innocent is not one of them. I would go so far as to say that you are even a little wicked underneath your righteous, reform-minded exterior. So stop funning me.”

  “I’m not funning. I am a trained physician, recall. So I’m well acquainted with the…theory of the matter. I merely haven’t had a satisfactory opportunity to put theory fully into practice. Until now.”

  “That…” She poked him playfully in the chest as she spoke, punctuating each word with a jab. “I do not believe.”

  “Well, yes, there were plenty of opportunities and even a fair amount of…experimentation in my younger days. But I was waiting.”

  She cocked her head, as if considering for the first time that he might be in earnest. “Waiting for what?”

  “An opportunity I couldn’t resist, I suppose.”

  She sat back against the headboard, looking a little stunned. He could see her trying to come to grips with the fact that he wasn’t teasing her. “I thought you said you weren’t motivated by theology or morality.”

  “That’s right. I’m not.”

  “Then why wait?”

  “Because it seemed important.” It was difficult to explain without making himself appear prudish and humorless. “I don’t like to waste experiences. I don’t like to waste people.”

  “James,” she protested, “if I had known, I wouldn’t have… Well, it would have been different at least.”

  He didn’t want her regret. Or her pity. “Let’s not discuss it anymore.” Sitting up, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The room suddenly seemed too small. “As to the matter at hand, I’ll need a few days to make arrangements. I’ll travel to Birmingham as soon as I can, later in the week.” He pulled on his breeches. “Stay here.” Making his way into the outer room, he collected her clothing and returned, handing it to her.

  “Thank you,” she said. “How will you approach Mr. Biedermeier?”

  James hadn’t quite decided. “Is he an arrogant sort, do you think?”

  “Yes, I get that impression.”

  “Then perhaps I can appeal to his conceit,” he said. “Some of the industrialists who are beginning to turn to reform are garnering a great deal of attention. Perhaps he can be made to fancy himself a luminary.”

  She had dressed herself but obviously needed help with the buttons on the back of her dress. He moved to sit beside her on the edge of the bed and began fastening them. How different the mood was now than when he’d undone them. Passion had been replaced with business. “There.” He finished and awkwardly patted her shoulder. “Good as new.” She turned toward him, and her ruby, hanging loose against her dress, caught his eye. “Except for this.” He reached for the stone and carefully dropped it down the front of her bodice. “How will I get in touch with you to inform you of my progress?”

  She stood and turned, as gorgeous as ever, the sideways slant of the late afternoo
n sun casting her fiery hair in a warm glow. “Perhaps you could climb the trellis?”

  He couldn’t tell if she was teasing. Everything in him recoiled at the idea of her spending another day in that place. If he was going to help her, it seemed wise to establish a few things now. “I won’t be returning to Madame Cherie’s again. I wish you wouldn’t, either.”

  She ignored him, turning to look at herself in the small glass on the wall above his washbasin. Refitting her wig, she said, “I’ll send around the address of my solicitor later today. You can reach me through him.”

  He met her gaze in the glass. What had he expected? An invitation to her home? To her bed? He nodded, following her into the outer room. “I’ll see you down to the street.”

  “No,” she said quickly, then tempered her sharp reaction with a softer one. “Thank you, I would prefer to go by myself.”

  Unsure how the mood between them had changed so rapidly, all he could do was nod stiffly and watch her shroud herself with her large black mantle and disappear into the hallway.

  He closed the door softly behind her and tried to remind himself that Lady V was the last sort of woman he would ever want.

  James’s aunt fussed over his luncheon, worrying aloud whether the two helpings of stew he’d eaten could possibly be enough and wondering if she should send downstairs for some ale to accompany his chestnut pudding. Fretting was her specialty and brought her great pleasure. So James sat back and smiled, allowing her loving exclamations to wash over him. He’d missed her. It had been too long since he’d paid a visit. And in truth, letting her fret allowed him to postpone a little longer introducing the topic he’d come to discuss.

  “James, dear, I wish you would come home and help me downstairs.”

  “You don’t need help, Auntie,” he said mock-sternly. He knew she was tickled that he’d made something of a name for himself in London. “You’re retired, remember?” After his uncle’s death, James had negotiated an arrangement with Hugh, his aunt and uncle’s long-time and devoted barkeeper. In exchange for a share of the place’s profits, he ran it, allowing Aunt Allie to retire to her rooms upstairs and devote herself to the tatting she so loved but always protested she never had time for. He suspected, though, that he and she had very different ideas about what “retirement” meant.

  “Oh, James, I like to make sure Hugh isn’t robbing us.”

  “Aunt Allie! Hugh has been a loyal worker for well-nigh twenty years! He nursed Uncle in his final days!”

  “Oh, bother.” She swatted his arm. “Is it so wrong for me to want you here in Guildford, where you belong?”

  He pushed his plate away, stood, and offered her his arm. She rose, and he kissed her cheek. He led her to the cozy sitting room that adjoined the small dining nook where they’d taken their luncheon.

  She sat and pulled him down beside her on a worn settee. “Of course your work with the Society is more important than puttering around a pub, keeping your old auntie company. I am proud of you, you know, despite my protestations. Terribly so.”

  “I know.” He loved her dearly, this sweet woman who had taken him in as an infant. How different his life would have been if his mother hadn’t surrendered him to her childless older sister and brother-in-law. It was probably the one thing about his mother he could respect.

  “It’s just that I wish you wouldn’t work so hard, that you would temper your efforts for others with some pleasure of your own.”

  He glanced at the floor, irrationally fearing that she might be able to see in his eyes how scandalously he had, in fact, taken some pleasure for himself just yesterday. As it had so often in the last twelve hours, the image of a flame-haired beauty intruded on his thoughts.

  “You’ve gained quite the reputation around here, you know,” Allie said. “Last week at the market, the vicar’s wife told me how much she admires your work. The vicar’s wife! I’m sure she never gave me the time of day when you were a lad.” He nodded, a little uncomfortable at the prospect of being seen as someone who’d eschewed his modest upbringing. “And she brought her daughter Joan around to call the very same afternoon. Can you imagine? She’s grown into a beauty since you last saw her, James. Seventeen years old now, and very interested in your work.”

  He remembered the vicar’s daughter, who’d always sat in the first pew on Sundays. She was all peaches and cream, shy and unassuming. No doubt she would make a perfect, pliable wife. The sort who would be a great support to him in his work: unselfish, reasonable in her demands on his time. But quickly the image faded, replaced by a resplendent masked creature, gasping in pleasure as she rode him. The woman in his mind was impossible, unattainable. Dangerous.

  “Stop your matchmaking, Auntie!” he said. “I’m here for a specific reason. One I suspect you’re not going to like.” His aunt’s smile faded, and he knew she’d guessed.

  “I’ve told you everything I know about your mother.” There was some wariness in her tone, and he hated to make her face a hurtful topic.

  “I know you have, and I appreciate it. You never hid anything from me.” He patted her arm.

  “I sometimes wonder if it was a mistake, if telling you about her drove you into this crusading life of yours.”

  “And what if it did? You just said how much everyone admires my work.”

  “Yes, I know, but it seems unnecessarily lonely. There’s more to life than science. Can’t one be a reformer and have a wife, too?”

  He ignored the question, though it was one he’d asked himself a great deal in the last week. “Allie, I’m here because I need money.”

  Her eyes widened, and he knew she was surprised because he had always lived quite comfortably on the quarterly allowance provided by his anonymous mother. He knew he was asking a lot of his aunt, who had not seen her sister since she’d arrived with her wailing babe twenty-four years ago, unable—no, unwilling—to care for him. Her quarterly payments, which had started suddenly, unasked for, shortly after he’d begun practicing medicine, arrived in plain envelopes addressed to his aunt and were the only contact either of them had with her.

  “You’ve always told me she indicated I could ask if I ever had any especial need for extra funds.”

  “James, what do you need? Perhaps I can help you,” Allie said, brow furrowed.

  He shook his head. “No. A situation has come up that is somewhat urgent—and unexpected.” He hoped she would not make him explain. The irony would be too much, though he supposed he could leave Lady V out of the tale. Allie knew how much he hated taking his mother’s money at the best of times, and that he only did so because it allowed him to give up his medical practice and devote his time and energy to reform. So she had to know he wouldn’t ask for more unless it was important. He held his breath, willing her assent.

  “All right. Write a letter, and I’ll post it.”

  “You have her address?” He’d assumed that since Allie had always been open with him about his origins and forthcoming about what she knew, she wouldn’t keep something as consequential as his mother’s location a secret.

  “No, I have the address of her solicitor. She said to contact him if I needed to reach her. I haven’t had the need.” She cocked her head. “Until now.”

  Relieved, he sank back against the settee. “Thank you.” How unsettling to think that his aunt had known how to contact his mother all these years. He’d only ever thought about how being abandoned by his mother affected him. But Allie had lost a sister. He sneaked a glance at her. “Do you miss her?”

  She turned toward him with a furrowed brow, but then her features relaxed into a smile. “No, not really. Sometimes I miss the girl she was when we were children. But I wouldn’t know her now, I imagine. She made her choices, and I made mine.”

  “Still, you must be disappointed in those choices. Upset by them, even.”

  She reached for his hand. “Your mother always did need everyone to love her, to approve. And she was so beautiful, and had such expensive taste. It
must have been easy to slip into the life she chose.”

  “Surely you’re not excusing her. To come from a good home like that and to choose such a life of sin?”

  “I’ve forgiven her, James, and I wish you could, too.”

  Shaking his head, he said, “One can’t simply forgive something like that. At least I can’t.”

  Allie’s eyes filmed with unshed tears. “I don’t regret any of her actions. They brought me you, dear James.”

  He gathered her in his arms. When had his vibrant auntie become a frail, old woman? He vowed to visit more frequently. Surrey was close—there was no excuse. “I hope I make you proud, Allie, even if I haven’t always done things exactly as you would have liked.”

  “Of course you make me proud, James! I couldn’t love you more if you came from my own womb!” she cried.

  “I try to live a good, upstanding life,” he whispered, repressing the urge to confess his recent sin, to name his hypocrisy.

  She pulled away from him enough to look him in the eyes. “I know you do. I only wish you would try to live a happy life, too.”

  Nodding, he offered a weak smile. Happiness had never been his goal. He’d always been content with satisfaction. What remained to be seen was whether satisfaction was any longer within his reach. He rather feared not.

  Chapter Seven

  Catharine sat at Daisy Watson’s dining table and watched her friend fuss over the place settings. Daisy was clearly agitated. It was to be expected, this being the first party she’d given in her new London town house. Daisy moved a knife at one place setting a fraction of an inch.

  “Don’t be nervous,” said Catharine, tugging Daisy’s arm, trying to lead her out of the dining room. “Everything is going to be fine.”

  Daisy resisted Catharine’s silent exhortations to depart the dining room, stubbornly planting her feet. “You’re a dear for saying so, but you’re wrong. We received some callers this week, and I’m beginning to see that certain members of London’s polite society are as fearsome as any villain you could imagine. And company is rather thin in town this time of year. I quake to think what the Season shall be like. I’m beginning to see why Robert dislikes London so.”