Ginevra glanced sharply at Emma. She colored furiously as the significance of those tactful words sank in. In a low, hoarse voice she whispered, “Yes, I would like to bathe. I’m still very stiff from yesterday’s journey. But there is no need for you to concern yourself with ... with other things.” She drooped her head, and her dark gold hair flowed over her shoulders to curl at her breast as she murmured, “I am no more Lord Chadwick’s wife now than I was at this hour yesterday.”
Emma’s mask fell away completely. “Not at all?” she gasped. “But ... but his lordship...”
Ginevra lifted her lashes and regarded her friend ironically. “Don’t look so shocked, Emma. I assure you there is nothing wrong with my husband’s manhood. The fault is entirely mine. It appears I am more like my father than I suspected. I seem to acquire obligations that I am incapable of fulfilling.”
She twisted her hands together tightly until the knuckles blanched and the fragile bones creaked in protest. Slowly she unplaited her slender fingers and splayed them on the sheet, studying them impersonally as the blush of color returned. Her hands were small and well-shaped, but they were not a “lady’s” hands, pale and smooth and soft. Ginevra’s nails were not delicate ovals, but were cut short and blunt, for cleanliness, because at Bryant House she had never known when she might be called to bind up a wound or tend a sick child. Countless needlepricks had roughened the pads of her fingertips, and across the back of her left hand a straight brown scar recalled the time when she had burned herself while helping Cook manipulate the roasting spit. Despite the rich rings, they were not really the kind of hands to wear jewels, not the kind of hands that Frenchwomen no doubt had, hands to stroke and inflame a man’s lean, hard body. Ginevra’s were the hands of a woman who worked, as she had worked in her father’s house since she was twelve years old. From childhood she had been mistress there—and now she was mistress of Queenshaven, and as such, she had obligations not only to her husband but also to the household. Even if the marquess never came to her again, there remained many duties for her to perform.
Ginevra straightened her slight shoulders and brushed her curls back from her face. She swung her head around so that the gleaming mass of her hair streamed down her back in a golden torrent. As she looked up at Emma, who was watching her with tender concern, Ginevra said, her voice low and firm, “I’ve changed my mind about breakfast. Please ring for it. The bath, as well. And kindly inform the housekeeper that after I am dressed I shall wish to meet the staff. It’s time we became acquainted.”
Behind the satin hangings of the bed, the air was sultry with the honey-and-ammonia odor of sex and the cloying scent of patchouli. As the Marquess of Chadwick stared upward into the shadows cast by the wavering candlelight, he grimaced with distaste and wondered how much of that betraying perfume clung to his own skin. His elegantly starched cravat that now lay in a limp wad on the Aubusson carpet already reeked of brandy; by the time he dressed and made his way back to his own house, his clothes were going to stink like the rags of a whore in a Haymarket stew.
Now that the spasm of anger and lust had been slaked, Chadwick was impatient to return home, where the long-suffering Hobbs, still aching from his unexpected journey back from Surrey, would rise from his own bed to ensure that his master had a hot bath and fresh linen awaiting him. Good Christian soul that he was, he would tend the marquess’s needs silently but with a speaking air of reproach, as if to remind him that he was too old for such unruly behavior.
Chadwick shifted his weight restlessly, and the woman beside him wriggled closer in her sleep. She was warm and velvety against his own cool hardness, and where their naked bodies touched, her lush flesh was slightly damp. When he stirred again she flung one arm across his broad chest possessively, as if to restrain him, in a gesture he found strangely irritating. Her long carmine fingernails dug into the heavy muscles of his shoulder, and the glittering bracelet on her wrist caught at the dark hair on his chest. He must have made some sound of protest, because her liquid black eyes opened suddenly and blinked at him, still hazy with sleep. “Cheri, qu’as-tu,” she murmured drowsily.
“It’s that damned bracelet, Amalie,” he grumbled, dismissing a trinket whose value could have supported a rural village for a year. “You’re scratching me with it. You know I hate for you to wear jewelry to bed.”
She gurgled with amusement and sat up beside him, her legs just touching his arm, and the coverlet fell away from her tawny body. “Pardon, Richard. I only do it to show you how much I like my present.” Like a pagan priestess she extended her arms so that the bracelet caught the light, the gems a sparkling contrast to her matte skin, the rubies gleaming with a fire that was reflected in her hair. She had the most exotic coloring the marquess had ever seen: black eyes, golden skin, and hair like a flame. When he first met her he had assumed that her hair was dyed, albeit skillfully, with the same henna she used to tint her nails—but that was before she came under his protection and he became intimately acquainted with the dark auburn triangle between her thighs. Sometimes he had mused about the possible heritage that could have produced such a barbaric combination. Amalie denied being anything but pure French, the daughter of a Creole planter, raised in the West Indies not far from the island where Marie-Josephine-Rose Tascher de la Pagerie began her own life, before she scaled the heights as the Empress Josephine. While Amalie did concede that one of her ancestors could have been a Spanish sailor, shipwrecked during a hurricane and nursed back to health and potency by the mistress of the plantation, Chadwick was more inclined to think that her ebony eyes and warm-hued skin resulted from the master’s coupling with one of the housemaids.
Aware of Chadwick’s appraising glance, Amalie unfastened the offending bracelet and leaned over him, deliberately dragging her full breasts across his chest as she dropped the gems onto the nightstand. When he did not respond to her provocation, her dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully, but she said nothing. Slowly she sat on her heels again, parting her knees slightly to make him aware of the musky recesses of her femininity. With a languid stretching movement she dropped her hands to the bed behind her, lolled her head backward, and arched her body upward until she was a golden bow, tense and vibrant, as if she quivered with desire. Chadwick recognized the posture at once—Leda offering herself to the swan—and he had to admit that she did it well, with all the grace and style that were said to have marked Emma Lyon’s “attitudes,” a diverting spectacle much appreciated among the ton in the days before that lady married Lord Hamilton and caught the eye of the great Nelson. But it was the very studied air of Amalie’s gesture that served to dampen any ardor that her deliberately erotic movements might have stirred. He knew her too well now. Although he had never pretended any affection for her, when she first came to him he had been amused and aroused by her apparently unbridled ardor. Only gradually did he become aware of the calculation behind her every action; only as their affair had progressed did he realize that the governing passion of Amalie’s life was greed.
The marquess trailed his long fingers up her thigh and patted the auburn triangle with a dismissive gesture. “I must go now,” he said, and he slid out of bed.
Amalie collapsed into a disgruntled heap. She stared resentfully at Chadwick’s lean naked body. Once she had been so sure of him, so confident of her power, and now he was obviously unmoved. She asked petulantly, “Why must you be in such a hurry? Why can’t you stay the night?”
The marquess frowned at the proprietary note in her voice. He dressed quickly, and he tucked his shirt into his trousers and reached for his waistcoat before he answered, “I think not, Amalie. I would prefer that my carriage did not stand all night at your curb.”
Amalie shrugged. “Et pourquoi pas? It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“No, but as yet my presence in Town is not generally known, and I wish to keep it that way.” He picked up his rumpled cravat and draped it around his neck, wrinkling his nose at the unmistakable smell of liquor. He had been
deep in his cups earlier in the evening, but now his head was clear, and he was more than a little ashamed of his behavior. When he flung himself out of his London house and ordered his driver to take him across town to Amalie, he had been intent only on easing the frustration and rage that had fermented inside him for two days, ever since Ginevra rejected him. Now he regarded his conduct with distaste, the sort of gutter antics he had put behind him years before. If only to maintain his self-respect, he ought to act more temperately, with a modicum of discretion. His alliance with Amalie was of too long a standing for him to use and discard her like some two-penny jade. He owed her more consideration than that; she had always been a compliant, if expensive, mistress, and as far as he knew she had even been faithful to him, which was more than he expected, perhaps more than he deserved.
As he tied his cravat into some semblance of a knot, he watched Amalie step down from the bed, naked as a wood nymph. She retrieved the bracelet and clasped it around her wrist again before she padded across the room to her dressing table. A diaphanous silk negligee the color of new grass lay slung across the stool. She slipped on the robe and sat down to brush her hair, frowning sulkily at the mirror. Where her heavy swath of hair fell down her back, the fresh green color of the silk made her tresses glow as if burning. Chadwick sighed. Amalie was a very inviting and seductive woman, and their relationship had always been thoroughly satisfactory physically. In addition, it was convenient and comfortable, virtues he found increasingly attractive. She had been there when he wanted her, and beyond her passion for jewels, which he had no aversion to indulging, she had made no demands of him. Until recently.
Although he had for some months noticed with irritation Amalie’s growing self-assured and possessive attitude toward him, still he had been stunned by her violent, very public reaction when he told her he was being married. He had planned the evening carefully: a lavish meal followed by a concert and fireworks at Vauxhall; when she was in a good mood, he would assure her that her lease and accounts were to remain open long enough for her to find a new patron; and then as a final gesture of their amicable parting he would present her with the magnificent ruby bracelet. But the evening had ended with fireworks of a kind Handel never orchestrated: instead of meekly accepting Chadwick’s decision, Amalie had shrieked and railed like a betrayed wife.
Chadwick stared at his mistress, as the explanation suddenly occurred to him, the motivation for her shrewish temper and her unconscionable intrusion upon his wedding day: Amalie had been so sure, of him that she had dared to imagine he might marry her. The very insolence of the thought took his breath away. Oh, certainly, almost every year some member of the aristocracy scandalized the ton by wedding his demirep, and of course many of those women who pretended to be high sticklers were in fact little better than married whores, but such would never be the case for a Marchioness of Chadwick, and he could not understand how Amalie had come to think otherwise.
Indeed, until recently he had little thought to marry again. His first marriage had been such a misalliance that he was in no hurry to repeat the experience. It had been the shock of the death of his son, so like him and yet a stranger, that had made him think seriously about reestablishing some sort of family life. He already had his mother and Bysshe who depended on him, and indeed the idea of finding some suitable young woman to grace his table and share his bed, perhaps give him more children, was not unappealing. He had taken time away from his political duties to survey the latest bevy of debutantes at Almack’s, but while his mere presence in that hallowed hall raised the hopes of sundry doting mothers, not one of the simpering misses paraded for his perusal had aroused any feeling in him other than boredom. His reaction had puzzled him, for certainly some of the girls were attractive, one or two even beautiful, and still another few showed promise of wit. He had not understood his indifference until the day he rode to Reading in answer to Sir Charles’s curious letter, and he spotted a girl with eyes like gold guineas cowering behind a beech tree.
Chadwick’s hard mouth quirked wryly as he shrugged his coat over his broad shoulders. How arrogant he had been, how supremely confident that he could order his own life! He would dismiss his mistress with a minimum of fuss, and then he would overcome his young bride’s very natural reluctance and with skill and consideration initiate her into the mysteries of womanhood. Instead his mistress declined to be dismissed, and his wife retreated from him as if from Beelzebub. Of course he hadn’t helped matters any, allowing himself to become so hipped by the presence of the hapless Ferris that he had lashed out at Ginevra and then stormed back to London. He had embarked on a binge unequalled since those long-ago days when his first wife died, and he had come to his senses only as he plunged himself feverishly into the familiar darkness of Amalie’s body. And all the time his mind had protested, Ginevra, Ginevra ...
Amalie turned away from her mirror and looked at the marquess, trying to assess his strange mood. Her voice was carefully humble as she asked quietly, “Richard, are you still angry with me about last Tuesday? Is that why you will not stay with me? I tried to explain...” She gave a laugh that was just short of convincing. “I’m sorry I made a fuss, but you should have been frank with me, mon chou. Did you think I would not understand? How could I not? The French invented the marriage de convenance. I can see that you might decide to remarry if some girl’s dot were tempting enough, but of course it need make no difference between us.”
Standing by the door, Chadwick regarded the woman perched on her vanity stool. He looked at her—not sadly, but perhaps with a twinge of regret for all those times their bodies had merged in an act of love that had no love in it. He knew the contours and textures of her flesh as well as he knew his own, and he knew enough about the workings of her mind to be aware that she must resent being supplanted by a much younger woman. Had there been any tenderness between them, he might have pitied her. But despite her hurt pride, he knew also that Amalie would weather his departure. At thirty-two she was still a striking and desirable woman, one who would have no trouble finding someone else to offer her a carte blanche. Even if she did not, he had always been very generous with her; no doubt in typical French fashion she had prudently stored away a tidy sum against the day when her smooth flesh wrinkled and those voluptuous breasts sagged. He said gently, “I’m afraid you don’t quite understand, Amalie. After tonight I shall not be seeing you again.”
Amalie’s black eyes widened, and the warm gold surface of her skin showed ashen through the translucent negligee. “I don’t believe you,” she said hoarsely, jumping up from her stool. “Ce n’est pas possible. You can’t leave me!”
“But I can,” Chadwick answered, “and I must. Don’t pretend to be surprised. I told you only a week ago that I intended to terminate our relationship.”
She shook her head fiercely, her hair reflecting highlights as ruddy as the gems on her wrist. “Non. Non. You told me some flummery about settling down with a bride, but now, bare days after your wedding, you come to me again, with gifts and—”
“I had planned to give you the bracelet the other night,” he interrupted. “It was meant to be a ... token in honor of my engagement.”
Amalie’s expression hardened. She gestured toward the tangle of scented sheets. “And what was that supposed to be, a wedding present?”
He took a deep breath. “No, Amalie, that was a mistake. I should not have come here. I wronged you, and I wronged my wife.” He stared at the great bed where he and Amalie had pleasured each other more times than he could count He wondered why the memory suddenly seemed so unpalatable. His blue eyes darkened as he remembered Ginevra lying across the cool, fresh linen of another bed, her hair sprayed out in a golden nimbus, her young breasts innocent and inviting beneath him ... Amalie’s harsh, raucous laugh ripped his reveries.
“Your wife!” she jeered scornfully. “What kind of wife sends her husband into another woman’s arms two days after the wedding? Was she frightened, is that it? Poor Richard, did she
shy away from your embraces, scream and then run home to her maman?” In her fury Amalie’s eyes became as opaque as jet. “How could you?” she growled. “How could you throw me over for some milk faced virgin?”
Chadwick stared at his mistress. He had never seen her like this, and he thought curiously that in her rage no one would ever call her beautiful. Her features twisted and distorted until they were a grotesque caricature of themselves, like a pagan mask. In her vivid silk robe, with her nipples and navel clearly visible through the sheer fabric, she looked like an idol for some unsavory fertility cult. He thought of Ginevra again and knew that he did not want to discuss her with this woman. He turned away from Amalie and made a pretense of searching for his hat.
She grabbed his arm. Her long red fingernails dug into the sleeve that Weston had cut with such loving care, and she pleaded, “Tell me, Richard, I must know. Tell me what hold this girl has over you that you would give up me for her.”
Chadwick shook her off. “Leave it, Amalie,” he said sternly, impatiently. “My wife is no concern of yours.” His voice trailed off as he recalled similar words he had spoken only two nights before. He continued more soothingly, “Be satisfied that I have instructed my man of business to cover your accounts for another quarter. With three months at your disposal you ought to be able to secure a new protector who will suit you. Perhaps you should aim higher this time. I hear that one of the royal dukes is looking for—”
“No!” Amalie cried. “I will not let you discard me like an old shoe. You belong to me!”
From his superior height he stared down at her, and his blue eyes glazed with ice. “You mistake yourself, madam,” he said. “I belong to no woman.” He scooped up his beaver hat and stalked out of the room.
Amalie did not follow him. She collapsed against the doorframe and listened intently to his heavy footsteps marking his progress through the elegant appartement meuble whose lease he paid; she heard him utter a terse good night to the sleepy maid, whose salary he also paid (Ferris had been dismissed out of hand). The front door slammed, and from the window opening onto the street she heard Chadwick bark out orders to his startled coachman, drowsing on his high perch. When the jingle of the bridle and the hollow clop of the horses’ hooves on the cobbled pavement faded into the distance, Amalie gazed down at the jewels on her wrist, basking in their cold fire. “So, my lord, you claim you belong to no woman,” she murmured, letting out her breath with a hiss. “Eh bien, nous verrons. We shall see.” Her free hand twisted the sharp links of the bracelet until it cut into her wrist as if it were a garrote around a slim white throat.
The Chadwick Ring Page 8
