Gambled Away: A Historical Romance Anthology

by Rose Lerner

  “I don’t believe I have the pleasure of her acquaintance.”

  “Simon isn’t going to marry any time soon,” Clement said, very pale. “Seeing as he brought a little Jewish trollop to my house party.”

  Despite the brief shock of hurt and betrayal, Simon still felt sorry enough for his friend that his “Clement, don’t,” lacked conviction.

  It spurred Clement on anyway. “A charming girl, Mama, and in no danger of any nervous disorders.”

  Lady Throckmorton blinked. “A Jewess! Oh Simon. Are you sure that’s wise? I know some men find their women very pretty, with those dark mysterious eyes, but you know they hate us really. How can you ever sleep easy next to one?”

  Clement laughed, looking at Simon as if to say, Good Lord, where does she get this stuff from?

  Simon did not know what to say. It was pointless and improper to say anything, and yet how would he look Maggie in the face, later, if he said nothing?

  If he did marry her, Lady Throckmorton would expect to be introduced to her, and God only knew what she would say then!

  He shook his head. Where had that come from? Of course he had no thought of marrying her. “I won’t defend Miss da Silva to you,” he said at last, “because it would imply her worth is a matter for debate. I will only say that at the moment, I esteem her higher than either of you.”

  Indeed, why was he here at all? He looked at the pair of them, and suddenly he understood what Maggie had meant. Just now, he did not care a shred what they thought or felt. What difference did it make if they were angry with him?

  He had sat still and been polite to Clement’s mother for years, with no reward he could see, except that she thought his manners prettier than Clement’s. If he walked out now, would she even remember it next time he saw her? And was there any reason, at this late date, to believe that Clement would reward Simon’s restraint with restraint of his own?

  Simon stood. “Thank you very much for the macaroons, my lady. I bid you good morning.” He bowed and walked out.

  Clement didn’t follow him, which set his stomach churning by habit. It would be days of silent treatment for this.

  What if Clement dropped him for good and all? What if he finally realized Simon would never change his mind, and so there was nothing to be gained from bothering with him any longer? Who would Simon write to, if Clement dropped him? Who would he tell about books, and sheet music, and funny things girls said to him in shops?

  He ignored the fear, setting off for the main house. But it was only a minute or two before Clement called out behind him, “Oy, Simon!”

  He waited, startled. He had been so sure it would be silent treatment. Had he judged Clement of five-and-twenty by the behavior of Clement as a student?

  “I’m sorry,” Clement said. “I was only trying to get a rise out of my mother.”

  Simon could pretend to believe that, or he could say what he thought and likely be told he was being fanciful, and doubt himself. He was so tempted to be grateful for the apology, and let it go.

  Maggie wouldn’t let it go. Simon decided to risk it. “I think you wanted to get a rise out of me too. But it isn’t my fault your mother said something unkind, and it isn’t Miss da Silva’s either.” He hesitated. “And I’m tired of your jealousy and spite,” he concluded in a rush. “I want nothing more than to stay friends, but you make it damned difficult sometimes.”

  Clement flinched back as if Simon had struck him. “Spite? Is that what you think of me? That I’m some cattish old woman?”

  Was he being unjust? Simon felt the worst sort of heel, but he could not seem to dig up any more patience and charity inside himself. “After all these years I suppose I know better than to expect honesty from you. But we both know you’ve done your best to make Miss da Silva feel unwelcome. And don’t give me the silent treatment, either!” he said as Clement’s face froze and he began to turn away. “Tell me the truth.”

  “It hurts to see you with her, that’s all.” Clement’s eyes were too bright. “I don’t accuse you of spite, but it wasn’t kind of you to bring her.”

  “And is that why you invited Mr. Darling?” Simon demanded. “To hurt me? Or was it because he’s your lover and you wanted his company?” For some unfathomable reason, he added silently.

  Clement grinned sheepishly. “A little of both?”

  Simon laughed. God, what was wrong with him? Even now, a small part of him was flattered by Clement’s jealousy. Being desired always had startled and delighted him. It was so far from how he saw himself. Clement and Maggie were so brilliant and dazzling, so surrounded by admirers, and yet they chose plain old Simon.

  “Is Aloysius hurting you?” Clement looked through his lashes.

  A familiar jolt of lust hit Simon. “Of course,” he admitted. He’d never liked seeing Clement with other boys. It wasn’t even that he’d wanted fidelity; he’d only been afraid Clement would find someone he liked better. He had half resented all of Clement’s friends, and still did after everything.

  Should he have talked to Clement about it? If he had, if he’d said a lot of things, if he’d said no to a lot of things years ago...would they still be lovers? Or would it have been over much sooner? “But it is what it is. I don’t blame you for loving him.”

  “He doesn’t love me.” Clement put his hands in his pockets. “He went off with Skeffington yesterday, and stayed away all night. And he isn’t...considerate of me. In bed, I mean.”

  “You should give him his marching orders.” Simon didn’t put much force into the words. He knew Clement wouldn’t.

  “I should. But you know I’m no good without”—there was a pause, and then Clement nobly did not say without you —“a lover. I just cry all the time. And I can’t squander my time in tears at the moment. After you swarm of locusts depart, I’ve got to get down to business. Managing the estate and all that.” He glanced at Simon out of the corner of his eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want to give it another shot?”

  And just like that, Simon’s lungs closed. “If we give it another shot, there won’t be anything left when we’re done,” he said, trying to soften it. “And I want there to be something left. Clementine, I know I was the one who broke it off, but don’t you remember how miserable we were? We were too close. I couldn’t breathe. Surely you couldn’t either.”

  Clement chuckled unhappily. “Oh, I’m more suffocating than you are. I’ll be just like my mother when I’m old, won’t I? Listening to her talk is like looking upon my doom.”

  “Of course not!” Simon said feelingly.

  “I will. I hardly have the option of being like my father. The man never opened his mouth. I suppose he saw there was no point to it. I’m sorry I dragged you with me to see her. I don’t want to drive off Aloysius, and...”

  And he hadn’t wanted to go alone. “I know. That’s all right.”

  “And I’ll be nice to Miss da Silva. I promise.”

  “Thank you.”

  * * *

  Simon had finished his noon watercolor of the lake and was trying to concentrate on sketches of designs for the folly, but Maggie was asleep again on the blanket beside him in a syllabub of skirts and a cherry-red sash, which he himself had tied in a large bow at her back that morning. Her face was buried in her arms, her hat laid atop her hair to keep off the sun. One calf in a clocked stocking protruded from her petticoats.

  He was losing his mind.

  The sun was uncomfortably warm; when she slept with such abandon, why shouldn’t he take off his coat?

  But he kept it on as the afternoon advanced and the heat worsened. Miss da Silva awoke at last, rolling onto her back. Feeling her sleeve and side where they had rested against the ground and were now soaked in sweat, she wrinkled her nose. “I need a bath. Or at least some more perfume.”

  Simon could smell tuberoses even now, faintly. “No more perfume.”

  She looked contrite. “I’m sorry, do I use too much? It’s so hard to tell. I mostly stop smelling
it myself after an hour or two.”

  “No,” he said. “That isn’t what I meant.”

  She shrugged and tilted her face up to the sun, shutting her eyes contentedly. “It hasn’t been this warm in years. I think I might go for a swim.”

  Simon could feel his eyes turning to saucers.

  “Would you like to join me?”

  He shook his head.

  She frowned at him. “You’re wilting. You should at least take off your coat.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’m not a lady, you know. I wouldn’t be offended by the sight of your sleeves.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  His sharpness took her aback, but she collected herself quickly. “All right,” she said peaceably. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to mother you.”

  It still startled him, the ease with which she gave in.

  Her gown wrapped around and over her, pinned and tied, but she deftly removed it all, starting with the knot he’d made in her sash. Stays, stockings, and shoes rapidly followed, and into the lake she waded. “Ai meu Deus it’s cold,” she gasped. “And I meant to be good and keep my hair dry! Ah well, here goes.” She ducked under, surfacing with a gasp. Simon saw her wet shift plastered to the inward dip of her waist before she dove in again.

  She came up in the middle of the lake, her smile exuberantly blinding. Her shift floated around her like a jellyfish. “The water’s lovely! Are you sure you don’t want to come in?”

  “I’m working.” He wished it weren’t a lie. He was doodling windows and archways, but mostly he was watching her.

  She hesitated a moment, then bobbed onto her back and paddled off, her body unselfconsciously on display. The sun sparkled off the water she threw up as she went.

  He didn’t actually need to do anything until his next watercolor at three. It had been a long time since he’d gone for a swim, and he loved it. What was he afraid of? That he would be overwhelmed by desire and ravish her there in the water?

  Well, that was certainly part of it.

  A sudden, brutal image slammed through him: dragging her to him as she resisted. She was thrashing to get away, but she would have to calm and submit if she didn’t wish to go under. She would cling to him, permitting any liberty— The sun beat down and his pulse raced, his face so hot he felt feverish. His cock ached sharply. It was disgusting. He was disgusting. Being dunked in cold water would do him good.

  Why was he so intent on resisting?

  He remembered what Maggie had said. If you don’t say no with your mouth, you end up saying it with your heart. The more he looked at that truth, the more it stretched and twisted, curving back on itself like a stone serpent eating its tail on a cathedral wall.

  Simon had lied and said no to a lot of things he’d wanted. Once he’d given Clement an inch, Simon had never had the strength to keep him from taking a mile—so eventually he’d started withholding the inches too. Had he forgotten how to say yes? He could barely hear his heart speaking anymore; he only remembered that he couldn’t trust it. It was an organ as perverse, overeager, and contrary as his cock.

  But he did know he wanted to get into that water. It didn’t have to be all or nothing. He didn’t have to fuck her just because he went for a swim. And, he realized with a deep sense of relief, Maggie wouldn’t press him to.

  He turned away as he stripped down to his shirt—he had unfortunately omitted small-clothes to preserve the line of his pantaloons—but he heard her whoop of triumph and realized he was grinning. He plunged into the water with an enthusiasm he’d forgotten, momentarily startled by how the water slowed him down and he had to struggle to walk forward. He gave up the struggle and dove under.

  * * *

  Maggie caught her breath when Simon came up out of the water laughing, slicking his hair out of his eyes. Wet, it was black as jet, and clung glittering to his scalp. She could almost see the color of his skin through his wet shirt. His shoulders and arms were beautiful, like something carved in marble by a sculptor who loved his model.

  Lust fizzed like champagne in her throat, purely happy even though she knew she couldn’t have him. She was alive and it was summer, the sun on the lake was beautiful and he was beautiful. She splashed water at him with her cupped hand and he splashed back, looking happy too, as if his fine clothes had trapped him and now he was free.

  She had missed this weightless liberty so much, legs and arms flailing, water slipping and sliding against her skin, ducking under the surface and coming up for a great breath of fresh air. She wanted so much to take her shift off too and swim naked.

  Simon ducked under the water and grabbed her ankle. She shrieked, accidentally kicking him in the shoulder, and they both laughed and splashed and raced each other back and forth across the lake. And even though she was flushed with wanting him, she hadn’t felt so pure in a long time, so at one with the world and free of calculation or design. She ought to spend more time out-of-doors in the sun. She ought to leave the city more.

  The thought ruined the innocence of the moment. Her own meaning was so transparent: Simon worked out-of-doors, and was rich enough to travel and stay at friends’ palaces with grounds bigger than Hyde Park. She felt greedy, and disloyal to Meyer, who took her out of the city whenever they could afford it. How was Meyer? Was he sad right now, and missing his father? Was he missing her?

  What if he wasn’t missing her? What if right now he was thinking, I ought to leave England more?

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m getting cold, that’s all. I’d better go in.”

  Even during the hottest summer in years, it wasn’t warm enough in England to let the shift dry on her body. She took it off and wrung it out, sluicing water from her skin with the flat of her hand. She didn’t look to see if Simon was watching her.

  Slipping her dry petticoat over her head, she spread the shift on the grass and let down her hair to dry. Then she pulled a pencil and paper from her satchel and wrote a letter to Meyer.

  “Who are you writing to?”

  She looked up with a start, relieved to have been focused enough on her letter that she hadn’t heard him coming. But relief fled at the sight of Simon buttoning his pantaloons. She caught a glimmer of skin and a few dark curly hairs in the gaps between buttons before he pulled up the flap. And just as she dragged her eyes unwillingly upward, he pulled his sodden shirt over his head.

  She tried and failed to swallow, making a sound like a beached fish. His chest was pale but beautiful, with a spray of freckles on his left shoulder above his collarbone. She could see the hair under his arms, and the smattering of dark hair in the center of his chest.

  Maggie smothered a laugh at that; she and Meyer were wont to mock hairless Englishmen. But suddenly there was something raw and sweet in that unprotected expanse of chest, his dark pink nipples standing out like...

  She couldn’t think clearly enough to finish the sentence. She wanted with single-minded ferocity to take his nipple in her mouth. She wanted to push him back on the blanket and touch and bite and lick and kiss every inch of exposed skin while he laughed and pretended to push her away.

  He spread his shirt by her shift and dropped onto the blanket. “Who are you writing to?” he asked again. The color was high in his cheeks, but his voice made a convincing show of nonchalance about their current mutual state of undress.

  She made herself look at his face. That turned out to be worse, all that bare skin blurred at the edges of her vision. “Meyer. Do you think Lord Throckmorton would frank the letter for me?”

  Simon blinked. “I’d forgotten, Clement can frank letters now.” He smiled with grudging but unmistakable affection. “I’m sure he’d be delighted to demonstrate his new privilege.”

  Maggie felt a pang of jealousy. Folding up the letter, she put it in her satchel to finish later. “I’m to send it to his father’s office so his mother doesn’t see it.” She sighed. “She’s probably throwing brides at him as we speak.” She could pictu
re them, pretty demure girls with gold in their hair and ears, whose mothers had taught them to make perfect puffy gemberboles and say the prayers on Shabbat and probably play the pianoforte.

  “Would it upset you if he married?”

  “I think it would, yes.” She huffed a laugh. “Even though I don’t want to marry him myself. What’s that expression—dog in the manger?”

  “It’s funny, isn’t it?” He lay back on the blanket, knotting his fingers together behind his head. She wanted to lie down and listen to his heartbeat. “I knew Clement was jealous of me. He doesn’t like that you’re here; I dread one day having to tell him I love someone else. But until this morning, I didn’t really admit that I’m jealous of him too. I hate Aloysius Darling.”

  “I don’t think that’s only jealousy. Aloysius Darling is an ass.”

  To her surprise, he reached up and curled a loose lock of her hair around his finger. “Where did you learn to swim?”

  She held herself very still so his hand wouldn’t brush her breast. If it did, he’d pull back. “In Lisbon as a little girl. And Meyer and I have gone down to Brighton a few times. He can visit the Peerless Pool in summer, but of course mere women are not allowed.”

  “People do swim in the Thames, I believe,” he offered dubiously.

  “I can see by your face you wouldn’t risk swallowing that water either.”

  To her regret, he dropped her hair. “Do you miss Lisbon?”

  “Yes, though I wouldn’t want to go back. The sunlight is yellow and the water’s nearly turquoise. Unless colors are always brighter in memories of childhood, I don’t know. I was only six when my mother brought me here. I know the beaches in Lisbon are soft sand, not like the hard pebbles at Brighton that hurt your feet.” She dug her bare toes into the grass, remembering. “I don’t have many memories of my father, but I remember holding onto him in the waves and knowing he’d keep my head above the water.” Absently, she brushed a bit of her hair across her mouth—and then realized she’d taken up the same tress he’d been toying with.