by Julia London
“I trust my direction helped you find the church?” he asked with a subtle wink.
She laughed. “All right, it’s true. I’ve been horribly remiss in my attendance.” She looked up at him. “I have yet another confession to make.”
“I am always keen to hear a woman’s confession.” His gaze drifted down to her bosom.
“Well, then, steel yourself,” she said, and took a breath. “I’m really not very good at all. I gave myself far too much credit the evening we met.”
“Oh dear.” He grinned a little lopsidedly. “Do you mean to say that you don’t read the Bible to the poor?”
“On occasion…but I could not claim it is a habit.”
“And what of the Ladies’ Beneficent Society? Are you a member?”
“Only recently.”
He grinned and twirled her round, deftly pulling her closer to him. “Then should I surmise that your assistance with my charitable auction is an imposition?”
“No,” she said quickly. His eyes were mesmerizing, lulling her into a feeling of bliss in his arms. She could waltz all night, round and round, for as long as he looked at her like that. “No, my lord,” she said, shaking her head sheepishly. “I wanted to lend my help to the auction. I hoped it would give me an opportunity to be…”
Her voice trailed away, and she looked uneasily at his shoulder. She wasn’t exactly a courtesan—she didn’t know how to take flirtation much further than she already had.
“To be?” he softly prodded her, pulling her even closer.
She didn’t care that he held her too close for propriety, or that everyone was looking at them. “To be…admired.”
That made Middleton laugh. He threw back his head and laughed as he twirled her round the edge of the dance floor, and then again, so that the lights above her were spinning in a fantastical display and she could focus on nothing but his face, his handsome face and eyes that seemed as deep as a river.
She didn’t get her wish to waltz all night, unfortunately, and it ended far too soon. She was still feeling heady, still feeling the strength of his arms around her, the pleasure of his smile. Middleton led her off the dance floor and continued on, through the crowd, oblivious to the curious looks cast in their direction.
It took Ava several moments to get her wits about her, several moments before she realized he was guiding her out of the ballroom in full view of everyone. “Wait!…Where are we going?”
“You look flushed,” he said, and led her down a brightly lit corridor, then turned in a darker corridor and kept walking, but dropped his arm from beneath her hand and put his hand on the small of her back. Possessively. Securely.
“What are you doing?” she asked again, the good girl in her growing alarmed, sensing danger.
“I should like to admire you,” he said, and smiled down at her. “Properly.”
Those words and his smile made her heart race. If she’d been possessed of the least amount of common sense, she would have stopped there. But she suddenly didn’t care where he led her, she didn’t care that half the world had seen them disappear. She didn’t care about the propriety of it or what would be said, cared about nothing but being with him, feeling his tall, powerful body next to hers, experiencing the beauty of his smile.
They reached a pair of doors, which Middleton threw open with the confidence of a man who was familiar with the palace. The doors led to a private, moon-drenched terrace that overlooked St. James’s Park.
Ava leaned her head back and filled her lungs with cool night air in an effort to still her heart. Middleton dropped his hand from her and walked to the balustrade, standing with his hands on his waist, his back to her, staring into the night.
The slightly dizzy feeling began to abate, and Ava resumed a mannerly stance. Middleton turned around, leaned up against the balustrade, folded his arms across his chest, and quietly observed her, his eyes dark and unreadable. Something in him had changed. The roué, the charmer, was gone, and in his place was a darker man, his thoughts private, his gaze searching for…what?
“You still seem flushed,” he said.
“It was rather warm inside the ballroom.”
“Do you suppose it was the warmth of the ballroom that put such color in your cheeks? Or perhaps something far more incendiary, such as the warmth between us?”
She didn’t answer; her silence was her admission of the truth.
“Come here,” he said low. When Ava didn’t move immediately, he said again, “Come.”
Her feet moved. As she neared him, he held out his hand to her. Unquestioningly, she slipped her hand into his and didn’t resist when he pulled her in between his legs. His hands caressed her arms, his eyes caressed her face, her hair, her neck, lingering a moment on her breasts. His gaze didn’t seem so wolfish now, but rather sadly thoughtful.
“You’re shivering,” he said, and slipped his hands behind her back, pulling her to him. Ava was close enough to see the red line of the scratch on his face, and the unwelcome image of Lady Waterstone came to mind. The image of a more sophisticated, experienced, and beautiful woman with a fortune of her own.
“What is your age?” Middleton asked, his gaze on her collarbone.
“I just turned three and twenty.”
“Hmm,” he said, nodding a little.
He probably thought she was far too old to be unmarried and still acting the debutante. She was too old. “What is your age?” she asked.
He smiled a little. “I will be thirty years in a matter of weeks. You are the oldest of the Fairchilds, are you not?”
She nodded.
He brushed a strand of hair from her shoulder, his fingers leaving a tingling trail on her skin. “Whom do you love?” he asked softly.
Ava swallowed and glanced at the stars overhead. “My sister and my cousin.”
“Only them?” he asked, and tenderly kissed her shoulder.
Ava didn’t know what game they played, but felt a little desperate as she glanced down at his dark head. “Whom do you love?”
He hesitated slightly, then moved his mouth to the hollow of her throat. “No one,” he uttered, and traced a path to the top of her cleavage. “Shall I admire you, Ava Fairchild?” he asked as he kissed the top of her breast. “Shall I admire you in deed?” His hand slid down her hip, cupping it.
She sucked in her breath and put her hands on his shoulders for support. “You are bold with my person, sir.”
“I am a bold man,” he said, and kissed the top of her other breast. “I generally take what I want.” He paused, and looked up. “And I want you.” He straightened suddenly, his body brushing hers as he rose, and then leaned down, and kissed her temple.
“Dear God,” Ava whispered, but he caught her whimper by covering her mouth with his. She made another small sound of alarm at the wave of sensual hysteria his words and the touch of his lips shot through her. He lifted his hand to her face, touching the corner of her mouth with his finger as he kissed her. Everything in her screamed to push away, to obey at least some level of decorum, but she couldn’t, even if she’d tried. She’d already fallen, had plummeted into that cloud of pleasure and desire, and in fact, her hand had wrapped around his wrist, holding tightly so that she didn’t float away.
He slipped his tongue between her lips as he pressed his body against hers, pressed against her the evidence of his growing desire for her. Ava had never felt anything like it, and it stirred something very deep and primal inside of her. His hand drifted to her breast, cupping it, squeezing it. She answered him by running her hands down his shoulder, then up his chest, the hard, muscular plane of him.
Her body strained for air. Her breasts pressed against his chest, her heart slammed fitfully against her ribs as his lips moved expertly, smoothly on her hers, his tongue tangling with hers, sweeping her teeth, the valleys of her cheeks, his hand reverently cupping her face while his thumb stroked her cheek.
A pressure was building in her, a need for air or to scream or to fl
ing herself headlong down whatever path he was taking her. He pressed tightly against her—or perhaps she pressed tightly to him—but it was an incredible sensation, the feeling of being swept under by a tide, of rolling and spinning weightlessly into an ocean of pleasure.
But then the tiny mewl of a woman’s cry of surprise brought reality crashing in like the tide crashes against the rocks on shore. Ava gasped, tried to pull away, but he held her fast with one arm.
His hand fell away from her face and he looked over her shoulder. “Ah. Miranda,” he said, as if he was expecting her.
Mortified, Ava cried out and forcibly pushed away from him. She was ruined now, completely ruined. Yet Middleton wasn’t as quick to let her go—he seemed to have no care for her or her virtue. He smiled reassuringly, swept his thumb over her bottom lip, and then for some inexplicable reason, he kissed her tenderly on her forehead. “Your sister will wonder what has become of you,” he said softy, and let her go.
Ava stumbled away, took a moment to get her breath, then turned reluctantly to face Lady Waterstone, who stood in front of the door.
The woman was glaring at her. “Go on, then,” she said curtly, gesturing toward the door. “Run to your sister.”
Ava needed no more encouragement—she walked quickly past Lady Waterstone, through the doors, into the darkened corridor, where she flung herself up against the wall, gripped her hands together and pressed them to the roiling in the pit of her belly as her chest heaved with each frantic breath.
She couldn’t seem to catch her breath, couldn’t seem to think anything except, God in heaven, what had she done?
If Lady Waterstone, or Middleton for that matter, dared to breathe a word, she’d be ruined.
Nine
T wo days after her astounding lapse of judgment, Ava was still waiting for the ax to fall. She wondered what Mother would have done in her shoes—if she would have given in to passion, if she’d have taken what fate handed her and made do. Ava would have given the world to talk to her mother today.
She didn’t tell Phoebe what had happened, although Phoebe suspected something was amiss. But Phoebe was completely occupied with her plan to clothe the entire ton, and was toiling away, hand-beading two of her mother’s gowns, cut and sewn together to make a new one. Every time someone knocked on the door, Phoebe went into apoplexy, jumping about and shoving fabric and thread here and there, and kicking sewing baskets beneath the bed or table, while Ava rushed to see who was invading.
It all served to increase Ava’s anxiety.
On the third day, the day before the charitable auction, Ava missed a meeting of the auction committee by claiming she had a headache.
“But the auction is on the morrow,” Phoebe said, looking askance at her.
Ava said nothing. She couldn’t face the expressions of women who might have heard about her scandalous behavior.
The afternoon was particularly gloomy, both inside and out.
The post, which Mr. Morris brought Ava, included a handful of letters and the Times. Ava sorted through the letters, and felt a surge of happiness at the sight of familiar handwriting.
“At last!” she exclaimed. “It’s from Greer!”
“Greer!” Phoebe cried, putting aside her work of repairing Ava’s camisole. “What does it say?”
Ava handed the rest of the letters to Lucy, broke the seal and unfolded the vellum. “It is written from Ledbury. Where is Ledbury?”
“I don’t know—read the letter!” Phoebe urged her.
“Dearest Ava and Phoebe,” Ava read. “I am writing to you from Ledbury. The weather has been quite dreary and wet, and the public coach was forced to stop, as the roads are presently impassable with all the rain. But Mr. Percy assures me it is not usually given to rain quite as much as this, and it should clear any day now, at which time we shall resume our journey.”
“Mr. Percy? Who is Mr. Percy?” Phoebe demanded.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Ava said, and continued to read. “I must deliver the most peculiar piece of news. In discussing my family history with Mr. Percy, I learned that my good Uncle Randolph passed just last spring. He was kicked by a horse he was gelding. The injury was quite severe, and though he apparently lingered for days, he did indeed succumb to it. Naturally, I was saddened to hear such distressing news, but Mr. Percy took great pains to assure me that there is still plenty of the Vaughan family about in these parts.”
“What?” Phoebe cried, hurrying to Ava’s side to read over her shoulder. “Her uncle has passed and yet she goes on? Who is this Mr. Percy? What if he is diabolical?”
“Listen to this,” Ava said, reading on. “I have very much enjoyed the journey, although Mrs. Smithington does poorly in the carriage and remarked that Wales is rather far from London. However, Mr. Percy kindly soothed her nerves by assuring her that should the weather hold, we shall arrive in Bredwardine by Monday of next week. I shall write you then. I apologize for not writing ere now, but this has been a rather bumpy ride, making it quite difficult to pen a letter. My love to you both. Fondly, Greer.”
Ava lifted her gaze from the letter and looked at Phoebe, who returned her gaze with a wide-eyed look of horror. “Who in God’s name is Mr. Percy?”
“I don’t know,” Ava said, and folded the letter. “We can do nothing but wait for her next missive. But I assure you, if there is a level head among us, it is on Greer’s shoulders.”
“That is very true,” Lucy said with a firm nod. “She’s very bright, that one.”
Ava smiled thinly at Lucy. “She is.”
“You might find this interesting,” Lucy said, holding up another letter. “It is from Egbert. He says he shall be home within the month.”
Ava’s heart sank. “Does he say aught else?”
“Just that he’s looking forward to tidying up here. Would you like to read it?”
“No, thank you,” Ava said quietly. She couldn’t bear to look at Phoebe, who had grown so still that Ava could almost hear her heartbeat.
She picked up the newspaper and tried to focus on the words printed there, and when she could find nothing of the parliamentary news to interest her, she turned the page.
“Shouldn’t pay that wretched thing a bit of mind,” Lucy piped up. Ava glanced over the top of the newspaper to look at her. “Gossip is the work of the devil.”
“I shall do my best to keep the devil from your ears,” Ava said, and raised the newspaper again, as she had no such tender sensibilities about gossip.
The door swung open and Sally struggled through, carrying a bucket of coal. “Mr. Morris says you’re to have this,” she said, awkwardly lugging it to the hearth.
“If Mr. Morris says we are to have it, then why doesn’t he bring it in?” Lucy demanded.
“Dunno, mu’um,” Sally said, huffing and puffing. She put the coal down, then braced herself against the mantel and wiped her brow with her apron. “Had a caller, mu’um,” she said to Ava. “But Mr. Morris turned him away.”
“Who?” Ava asked, her hopes rising for one spectacular moment.
“Sir Something or such,” Sally said, and Ava’s hopes were dashed to pieces. “Came to call on your stepfather, but Mr. Morris says he ain’t within. So the gent asked for you, and Mr. Morris told him he wasn’t permitted to change his call. The gent said that wasn’t the rule at all, but Mr. Morris said it was, and besides, it was too early to call on ladies—”
“That blockhead!” Lucy cried, and came to her feet, storming out of the room as quickly as her girth would allow.
“Oh dear Lord,” Phoebe muttered. “Ava…”
“I know,” Ava whispered, and looked again at the newspaper. Her eye caught a particular on dit halfway down the page.
Few have had the privilege to view the beauty of St. James’s Park from the private terraces of the palace, by the light of the sun or the moon, but one good lord was inspired to gather orphans under his wing to see it. The viewing, however, was met by some disdain from certain
widows who believe the park is not a proper place for poor orphans.
She felt the burn of shame in her cheeks and the race of her pulse. It was only a matter of time before names were put to the on dit, if they hadn’t been already, and she’d be the object of much untoward speculation. If she wasn’t already.
Sally put her hands on her waist and bent backward slightly. “What’s got you so glum, mu’um?”
Ava started. “Me?” She forced a smile, folded the paper and tucked it into the seat next to her. “Nothing at all. I was thinking of a charity auction I must attend on the morrow.” And yes, she had to attend it. Her absence would cause even more speculation.
“Oh? Who’s the auction to benefit?” Sally asked innocently.
Ava looked at her lap. “Poor orphans.”
Ten
T he day of his auction dawned cold and wet, matching Jared’s mien in general. He wasn’t surprised by the weather, really—as of late, it seemed as if the universe was conspiring against him. He stood at the window of his town house that overlooked Grosvenor Square, watching the rivulets of rain run down the paned glass, the letter he’d received from his gamekeeper at Broderick Abbey crumpled in his hand.
He didn’t know what to do with the information in the letter. He didn’t know how to make things right anymore. His entire life, he’d believed himself invincible, above the earthly bonds so many men felt. Now he felt at sea. He was drifting, his direction unknown, unable to see a harbor on any horizon.
With a weary sigh, he put the letter into the pocket of his dressing gown and returned to his desk, where another letter sat, awaiting another answer he did not have.
He’d first read it last night when he’d arrived home. But he’d been a little in his cups and had tossed it aside. This morning, however, he scarcely had the heart to pick it up again.
Dearest, the letter began.
Please forgive me! I cannot bear to be without you—I cannot sleep for dreams of you, and each day seems endless without you in it. I was wrong—I know you must do the prudent thing for the sake of your family, but please, I beg of you, do not abandon me for it. I shall wait for you, darling, my every breath a hope for you.
