Aideen frowned. Yes, Rakecombe had a reputation for being a bit callous, but all this did sound a smidgeon more ill-tempered than usual.
“You are under his skin, Aideen, scratching away.” Meghan leaned closer. “Keep scratching, dear. Dig deep. Or…” She pulled back. “…pish to the lot of them and we’ll go to Egypt. I do so like donkeys and can quite imagine us traversing the sands with some handsome Ottoman Sultan as guide.”
∞∞∞
Rakecombe quaffed his brandy and itched his jaw.
Plunkett had left a half hour earlier with his tail between his legs, and Rakecombe knew he’d have to apologise for his foul mood. But dammit, nothing felt…right.
It was the search for Stafford, of course. It caused him sleepless nights and hence his discipline to wither.
This morning, he’d also met with Rainham, and since there appeared to be no leaking of the list of informants, it was now being presumed that Stafford and the documents were no longer of this earth.
Winterbourne and himself had been assigned other tasks, but something stirred maggots in his brain. A niggling doubt.
Via Bluey, he’d discovered that Stafford had been involved with a woman whilst undercover in Paris. Had she persuaded him to become a turncoat? Betray his country? Was a woman his downfall?
Sighing, he clonked his head against the high-backed chair, exhaustion probably accounting for his bad humour.
God forbid, he’d even had to act contrite with Winterbourne, which had been akin to peeling his fingernails back. The marquess had behaved irksome, asking why Aideen wasn’t with him at the Rowe’s ball, and he’d vented his lack of sleep on the fellow who’d solely smirked and mumbled about cherry itches.
Of course, he should have extended the long-standing invite to his wife, but it was too soon.
He knew he couldn’t look at her without…needing.
Not that she was the reason he couldn’t sleep, obviously, but when he did manage a few hours, his dreams ranged from downright erotic to strangely deviant: Aideen tracing the D on his shoulder with her tongue whilst her slender fingers pleasured him; Aideen tied to the four-poster covered in cherries…
Lust alone could explain those dreams but the one about her modestly reading to him in bed was downright perverse.
If he kept away long enough, the lust would dissipate. One night ought to have been enough, surely.
A knock on the door and he bade them enter – probably Rawlins as he’d asked for some fruit, the only item edible in this house.
Briefly he speculated if his duchess had noted the cuisine. Now his mother was no longer head of the household, maybe Aideen would give that chef the heave-ho.
It wasn’t Rawlins.
His wife entered before closing the door behind her. April was a sparse month for fresh produce, but some stored apples filled the fruit bowl she held.
Had Eve come to tempt him?
“Duchess,” he acknowledged. Keep it formal and all would be well.
“Alexander.”
He swallowed. Did she have to call him that? Did she know what it did to him? He gulped brandy, drinking in her presence after successfully avoiding her for five days.
A sweet peach dress swathed her body, with a bronze-coloured shawl draped about her shoulders. That coal-black hair was fixed in a loose coil and a few ringlets framed her face and cascaded over her bosom. Pretty as a bloody picture.
Three years ago, a French spy aptly named The Red Temptress had tried to seduce him for information, but she’d left without success, complaining that he was a joyless, phlegmatic, bloodless, English stone and coincidently…not a spy.
The woman had been outstandingly beautiful and skilled in flirtation, but she had nothing on Aideen.
Beyond doubt, his wife could have him leaking secrets like a rusty bucket if he wasn’t careful.
With swinging hips, she placed the bowl on the table and twirled a ringlet. He slitted his eyes – what was the minx up to?
“I should like to attend the Miltons’ masquerade ball two nights hence.”
“No.”
That ball skirted the very edge of propriety. A fair few guests were Cyprians, and most could have been, they behaved so badly. The rest weren’t much better, even if they were from the scions of high nobility… And in addition, he himself was due to attend that ball in order to rendezvous with a certain Sir Phineas as he’d served in France with Stafford and might have information on this Frenchwoman.
Being a priggish duke and all that, it was not an event Rakecombe would normally grace with his presence, but needs must. Sir Phineas had wanted to meet somewhere he wouldn’t be recognised – where better than a masquerade?
“No?” his wife queried, black eyebrow raised in blatant haughtiness. That was his trick, but she did it very well.
“No. Rakecombe stock do not attend such scurrilous events. It’s not respectable, my little leprechaun.”
Ire flashed in her eyes. So, she didn’t like that appellation; he must use it more often.
“Why are you English obsessed with leprechauns? And I’m not little.”
“Compared to me you are. Little and delicate.” And fragile. So breakable. So precious.
She stalked over, and he forced his lips to steel, limbs motionless, even his eyelashes stilled.
What if his life was different? What if she’d come to simply talk about the day? He’d tug her to his lap and hold her tight. Share an apple.
But no temptation was worth a life.
“I wish to attend a ball and dance.”
“Go shopping instead.”
“I have already been shopping.”
Yes, Plunkett had mentioned that – to his account book’s detriment. “The theatre then,” he said in his best dismissive tone.
“Who with? We have been married five days and didn’t even have a honeymoon. It would seem a little odd if I attended events on my own. They’ll say…”
Yes, he knew. They’d say the duke was bored already. That they would live their lives like half the ton did. That his marriage was no more than a forced farce to a nobody. “And would they be wrong?”
A gasp escaped her whilst guilt and self-hatred gathered low in his belly.
He very nearly stood, very nearly pulled her to him, but he forced his mind to Gwen, her green eyes shocked in death. He imagined Aideen, all fire extinguished in the quick draw of a cold blade.
“Ask Winterbourne to attend you,” he drawled, closing his eyes to the torment within. “You enjoy his company and I keep tripping over the bloody man wending his way here to pant at your feet.”
“May the devil make a ladder from your spine,” she snarled, and he inwardly smiled. He adored her curses and hadn’t heard one for a while. All felt tranquil as she hissed her anger – his little hellcat would never cower beneath his snubs.
Oh, how he needed…
He shook his head. “Indeed,” he continued, “why not assign him the green bedchamber since he’s here so often.”
Aideen leaned over the desk, and he waited for the adroit retort but it seemed she had decided on a differing tactic.
Fingers brushed his jaw where it had been itching earlier, and he willed the hairs on his arms not to rise.
She licked her lips and he hooded his eyes to prevent her from seeing his reaction. It couldn’t have been successful as she did it again.
“I think, Alexander,” she purred, twiddling another ringlet, “I’ll assign him the master suite, for all the time you spend in it.” The hand removed itself from his jaw and she plonked an apple on his desk. “After all, it’s easy to rob an orchard when no one’s guarding the apples.”
She sashayed from the room, still clutching the bowl of fruit, and slammed the door behind her.
He glared at the solitary apple. It was mouldy and had holes in it.
Eve had gotten her revenge on mankind.
Chapter Thirteen
Everybody wants to be a cat…
The ta
il was coming along nicely but the whiskers were proving rather difficult. Thank heavens for Cordelia and her sewing prowess.
“I wish I was to attend such a glittering occasion,” her friend said wistfully, and Aideen patted the slumped lacy-white shoulder, getting her fingers caught in a ribbon of seed pearls.
Blithely taking no notice of Rakecombe’s contrary edict concerning the Milton masquerade, she had requested that Lord Winterbourne escort her.
A dash of blackmail had not gone amiss concerning his IOUs with Lady Gibbon, although he’d merely looked amused and muttered about having already settled them in kind.
Without doubt, she would not have gone if Rakecombe had said yes, or given his reasoning, but the imperious “No” had stiffened her resolve in a trice.
So here they were, sewing a tail for her skirts, a pair of gloves with claws and a mask complete with whiskers.
Cordelia sighed again, and Aideen considered fulfilling her role as duchess and having words with her friend’s betrothed. Weren’t all duchesses supposed to be matronly gobermouches?
“You haven’t written any more shepherd and sheep poems, have you?”
“Goodness, no. It’s just…” The tail was put to one side. “Lord Oakdean is attending the Miltons’ ball as well.”
Aideen’s eyebrow shot up. All the ton was aware of the Miltons’ masquerades. They managed to stay the right side of respectable only because of their hosts huge influence, but everyone knew they were a smidgeon risqué – not suitable for newly engaged viscounts or young ladies – which was why Aideen wanted to go.
The duke may not be attending, but for once in her life she’d be most intrigued to view the high society goings-on, masks only serving to reveal their true selves.
And besides, she’d heard the Miltons served superb lobster patties.
“How do you know he’ll be there?”
Fiddling with the velvet tail, Cordy’s entire demeanour spoke of guilt. “I was awaiting Oakdean in his drawing room and started sifting through the post – purely as something to do.”
“Of course,” agreed Aideen, jostling up on the settee and not believing her for a moment.
“Well, the Miltons’ invite always has elaborate gold lettering. My brother used to go so I recognise its style.”
“To be sure, it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s attending.”
“I spoke to my maid who is sweet with the footman at Oakdean’s, who in turn is cousin to his valet and therefore had it confirmed.”
“Oh.”
“Hmm.”
“You could always…” The idea was scandalous, and a duchess should shy from scandal, but… “come along?”
Blue eyes widened like Wedgwood cake plates. “No! I couldn’t… Could I? No… Well. No. Although…”
“Lord Winterbourne will chaperone us. And you would be in disguise.” She tapped a finger to her lip. “But no, you are right, it’s a bad idea. I’m a bad influence and a terrible frie–”
“It’s a fabulous idea,” Cordelia gushed.
“It is?” Oh lawks.
“Yes,” her friend assured, a fevered light entering her eye. “I have been coddled and sheltered and hidden for nearly twenty years and sometimes I feel as though I will marry Oakdean and nothing will change.” Aideen gawped as Cordelia stood and paced the rug, ribbons struggling to keep up. “Sometimes I feel he is only marrying me because I am the diamond of the Season, and when we marry, he’ll place me on the mantelpiece, admire me for an hour and then put me away in a cupboard again.”
“I didn’t know you felt that way.”
“No, because it is selfish and wicked. How can I complain when at the orphanage I see such poverty? But I feel so…stifled.” She flopped back on the settee in a very un-Cordelia-like manner.
“But how will attending the ball help?”
“I want to be free for one night. Not an ornament or a proper miss but a person. My own person. Do you know my mother makes me practise laughing to sound young and girlish?”
Aideen shook her head.
“Well she does – closes her eyes, listens, and tells me if it’s too loud or deep. Then I have to do it again and again until it has the correct balance. I’m not allowed supper otherwise.”
Unsure what to say, and glad she was half-Irish, Aideen gave her friend a hug: the English were a peculiar lot.
“But, Cordy,” argued Aideen, aiming for some propriety, “what if you are seen? You’ll be ruined. You spoke of Oakdean’s grandmother–”
“I’ve been reconsidering, and I never should have succumbed to that blackmail. If Oakdean loved me, he wouldn’t care about lamb poems sent by a foolish child.” Cordelia twisted, face defiant. “I am taking a leaf from your book, my dearest friend.”
Oh, Beelzebub, thought Aideen, please no. “Erm, that might not be wise.”
But Cordelia shook her head, ringlets bouncing with enthusiasm. “I saw how your husband gazed at you on your wedding day. As though you were cake, but Oakdean is always so…polite. He kissed my forehead when we became engaged – my forehead! – as though I was but twelve years,” she ranted.
Never having seen this side of Cordelia, Aideen was both impressed and worried. “But what happens if you are recognised? Your pristine reputation will be in tatters.”
“No one shall recognise me as my costume will be superb, and I shall tell Mother I am staying the evening with you. But if I am identified and Oakdean is disgusted, then I shall voyage to Egypt as companion to your mother-in-law.”
“Oh. Has she asked you as well?”
“Actually, she said we could all go together. I’ve always wanted to see the pyramids.”
Cordelia picked up the tail and continued to stitch, humming.
And that was that, it seemed.
∞∞∞
The mantel clock chimed eight as Aideen nervously pulled her satin black gloves tight. She and Cordelia had torn apart an old fan, using the bone sticks to create wicked claws sewn onto the fingers, and Aideen had to admit they did look grand.
Not only that, but any gentleman that dared to take liberties would find a claw in their neck…or indeed any appendage that presumed to stray too close. Perhaps she ought to draw a picture for Uncle Seamus and he could incorporate them in his fiendish designs.
She meandered to the long mirror and perused her form.
A midnight-black silk dress sheathed her, colourless except for her pale skin. She twisted and smiled at the long tail emerging from the rear in a sensuous curl.
The ebony mask was also a wonder. Cordelia had proved a dab hand at painting silver scrolls around the eyes and a glittering nose. Long whiskers, crafted from the shafts of feathers, had been affixed and they danced and bobbed with any slight movement.
Lastly a small pair of pointed velvet ears sat atop her head. They were a little skewwhiff as Aideen had sewn them as an afterthought when Cordelia had departed to organise her own costume.
She laughed at the sight in the mirror, but her tone was forced, and she knew that if she dwelled upon her thoughts, the black attire suited her mood.
When she’d married, she had presumptuously assumed that Rakecombe did essentially like her. That they would spend time together. At the very least breakfast. But for the past two days, he’d continued to avoid her as though she’d the plague.
Barely one week married and already they lived separate existences.
And absence did not make the heart grow fonder. She could feel hers freezing over like Father Thames last February.
She tried to remember the day he’d proposed, the words he’d used. Rakecombe had proclaimed want, may even have starved after her like cake as Cordelia had suggested, but it appeared he’d now eaten it whole and didn’t want seconds.
So, damn them all.
Dancing. Champagne. Lobster patties. The important things in life.
“Aideen?”
The voice quivered from the doorway and she spun.
Saints in their stock
ings. A sheep.
In stark contrast to Aideen’s black, Cordelia was clad entirely in pure white. She had hoped they’d be able to enter the masquerade unseen, but she now suspected they’d be…noticed.
A white wig complete with huge floppy ears – better formed than her own – covered her friend’s usual honey-blond curls. The mask was also white except for black smudges around the eyes and a button nose. Woolly stuff had been attached to the décolletage, the waist and hem. An exceedingly long tail was draped across her arm.
Surely sheep had shorter tails?
Spying the anxious eyes behind the mask, Aideen dashed over. “You look delightful, Cordy. Like a…lamb let out in a spring meadow for the first time.”
“Oh, good. That is the effect I was after. I didn’t want to appear like mutton.”
“Gracious no, you look beautiful. Now Lord Winterbourne is–”
“Here I am, loveys. I understand I’ve two beauties to escort.”
They both whirled and stared open-mouthed at the stunning gentleman before them.
Of course, she had always known Lord Winterbourne was a handsome man, and tonight, she had to acknowledge they would be the envy of every female as they entered the ballroom together.
Byronesque black curls fell perfectly to broad shoulders, and nestled in his artful hair was a pair of red horns – still better made than her own. A black-and-red mask obscured his features with leering demons painted upon it. Flashing white teeth as usual – heaven knows the powder he used – above an immaculate cravat and black jacket. But the waistcoat was a poppy red, devilish and bright. In his hand he held a rather dangerous pitchfork.
“That is a beautiful coquelicot waistcoat, Jack,” she sighed, wishing she could wear such a colour. Alas, it caused her complexion to resemble an old rag.
“Ah,” he said, rushing forth to kiss her hand. “Why didn’t we marry? You appreciate the prevailing fashion like no one else. Instead you married His Colourlessness.”
Cordelia giggled, and Jack sketched a bow. “And who do we have here? But an innocent lamb with flesh so very…succulent.” Her friend tittered yet more and Aideen wacked his arm with a claw.
Let Sleeping Dukes Lie Page 11
