Edward shifted on the bed, his hazel eyes the color of a stormy sea. “Ah, yes. Garrett. How is your lover?”
Caroline felt a mounting fury. She knew it was pointless to argue as Edward’s mind was made up, but she couldn’t help herself. “He is not my lover! Ask your spy Hazlett if you don’t believe me!”
“There are some things I dare not ask anymore. And even you can be discreet if you wish to be.”
Yes, she was discreet. She lived like a veritable nun. And Garrett would be her lover, if she let him. Perhaps it was time to do so.
Just like that, she gave up the hope of Edward in her life, even for the one day a year. It was past time.
She sat up against the pillows, chin lifted, spirit sunk. There were three steps to divorce—she had researched it herself. Expected it eventually. First, Edward would have to sue her lover for alienation of affection. Then he would sue her in an ecclesiastical court. Because he was a peer, they would still not be done with each other. Parliament would have to pass a bill of divorcement. No wonder estranged couples stayed yoked in marriage for what was surely hell on earth. “Fine. Do whatever you wish, Edward. You have the letters. I’ll confess if it will make things go faster. I’m sure you could easily persuade Andrew to say whatever is necessary. He always needs money, and truth is just a meaningless five letter word to him. Be done with me once and for all and put me out of my misery.”
“You’ve not been more miserable than I.”
“The misery contest is not one you will win, Edward. You at least still move about in society. People speak to you. You have the company of your family. I, on the other hand, have the company of courtesans thanks to the ‘gift’ you made me of this house. Come to think of it, buying it for me was probably the most emotional thing you’ve ever done. You must have been so very angry.”
“I’m angry still. You make me angry.”
One would never know it from his tone. He might as well have said, “Please pass the butter.” He was motionless beside her, his breeches in his lap, looking down at them as though he wasn’t sure which part of the body they were intended for.
“It’s not a sin to feel things, you know.”
He barked out a laugh, rusty from disuse. “You feel enough for both of us, Caroline. You are—too much for me.”
“But yet not enough. I’m not Alice, good and pure.”
“Don’t drag my wife into this!” There was satisfactory heat to his voice; her barb hit home.
It had been tedious—no, torture—to be compared with the incomparable Alice, even when he never said a word out loud. “I am your wife, at least until Parliament says otherwise, in case you’ve forgotten. I can’t help who I am. God knows, I tried, but it was never enough.” Even as she made the claim, she knew she lied. There had been many days when she had gone out of her way to provoke him.
He snorted. “One would never know it. Our life was a circus. To what purpose is this analysis of our marriage? We never shall see eye-to-eye.”
“You’re quite correct. As always. I shall miss you, though. Miss the idea of you. So solemn and judgmental. I shall simply have to take up with a Calvinist next.”
“I wish the poor fellow luck. I’ll even pray for him.”
“Why, Edward. Are you making a joke?”
“I suppose I am. This is the end then.” He made no attempt to get off the bed.
“As you wish.” Caroline tried to stop the betraying tears by closing her eyes. She could not bear to see the back of him as he walked out of her bedroom, his posture straight and unyielding, making him look even taller than he was.
But she didn’t have to watch him leave. He took her in his arms and laid her back on the bed. His lips were gentle as butterfly wings, his warm hand tugging the sheet away to press her against his chest. He held her as if she were porcelain, his fingertips skimming her skin, teasing the tiny copper hairs on her arms, circling her pale pink nipples, dipping lower to stroke her drenched bud. His mouth never left hers, their tongues tangling, tasting, promising something more than a farewell kiss. His tenderness tumbled into something else altogether as her hand locked around his rigid cock. Just as he knew every peak and valley of her body, every strength and weakness, she knew his. If only they could just stay abed and never speak.
He broke the kiss and entered her again in one wonderfully hard thrust, his arms corded on either side of her and his hands bunched on the rumpled sheets, gliding in and sliding out as her hips rose frantically to meet him—to catch him and never let him go. He made her work for it, taunting her each time he withdrew, rocking back into her so completely she thought she would die of pleasure. He stopped for a moment, buried deep within her, forcing her to respond to his power as she spasmed around him. They watched each other, gray eyes to green, until her tears blurred the angles of his face. He bent to lick them away, his tongue cool on her flushed cheeks. He whispered something—she could feel his lips thrum against her temple as the next climax hit, spinning his words away.
She couldn’t hear. She couldn’t see. She could only feel—when he took a peaked nipple between his teeth, when his fingernail scraped an invisible line down her throat, when the heat of his skin set fire to her own at each point of contact, when he angled himself just so to create exquisite friction.
He flooded her, collapsed and held her to his beating heart, imprinting himself onto her slick body, every inch of separation between them gone.
They lay like that until she thought he had fallen asleep. His breathing was even, yet his arms did not relax their hold. She dared not sleep herself and miss a minute of that perfect closeness, his long, lanky body cradling hers. But at the clock’s midnight chime, he rolled away.
“Where are you going?”
“Home, Caro. I must. I must,” he repeated, as if he had to convince one of them. He didn’t glance her way as he rounded up the clothing that had been tossed aside in such haste. The candles still guttered on the mantel, but she couldn’t take one last look as he removed himself from her life. She stared up at the mirror instead, where she was a shadowy forlorn form, indistinguishable from the white mound of bedding.
“Good-bye.” He said it from the doorway, his voice travelling the miles between them. There was no last kiss, no last caress. The door shut with a soft click, and her heart broke once again.
Chapter 3
“Poison?” The duke clutched at his throat, his long, elegant hand turning into the claw of death.
—The Dark Duke’s Dilemma
It was impossible to sleep. Caroline changed the sheets and pillowcases herself, rolling up the traces of Edward’s scent and semen into an unwieldy ball. Lizzie could deal with the laundry pile tomorrow. Wringing out her sponge in the basin of cold water, she scrubbed her body with vicious indifference, barely noting the pink and purple marks Edward’s hands and lips had left. She ran a comb through her tangles and put on a plain navy dressing gown, a far cry from her exotic writing robe. Feeling an urge to banish every shadow, she lit branches of candles in her upstairs parlor until the room was lit like Christmas. The remains of dinner had been taken away at some point—she hoped the Hazletts had not been too horrified by the commotion beyond the bedroom door. They had left dessert behind, two sad puddles of caramel and cream. Caroline ate the entire contents of both parfait glasses without a thought to her hips or her chin, then pulled a book from the shelves and curled up on her purple sofa.
Unfortunately the words swam about the pages like little black fish. She snapped the book shut and stared into the empty fireplace. Tomorrow she’d cut some pink hydrangeas and place them in the hearth in one of the Chinese pots. She could ask some of the girls on the street in for tea. It wasn’t her usual Thursday reception day, but perhaps someone would be at loose ends. The two newest Jane Street mistresses, Laurette and Charlotte, had already moved out before they ever really settled in. Laurette had gone to the country with her marquess, while Charlotte had simply disappeared, which was probably just a
s well. Charlotte was simply not cut out to be any man’s plaything.
Nor was Caroline. She was no longer at the mercy of Edward’s single night a year.
She might never see him again, unless it was by chance. She expected that his advocate would contact her over what needed to be done. She’d prefer legal counsel of her own, although she knew perfectly well she had no rights under English law. Only a man could bring charges of infidelity in a petition for divorce, and most men were not quite furious enough to do so. Her reputation, tarnished now, would be irretrievably black once the act of Parliament became fact.
She didn’t have a solicitor. She’d best ask Garrett for a recommendation—which would mean Garrett would know her circumstances were about to change and it would be even more difficult to keep him at arms’ length.
A trial would be public and mortifying. Every bit of her dirty laundry—far worse than her soiled sheets—would be published for all the world to know. The truth would come out about Andrew, and possibly even her brother. Mary’s Surrey serenity might be affected as well. Maybe she would decide at last that Caroline was not a fit sister to consort with.
It had finally come to this. All Caroline’s past machinations to salvage her Parker pride had been worse than useless.
But a divorce could take years. Perhaps Guy Fawkes could return from the dead and blow up Parliament successfully this time and she wouldn’t have to worry.
The brisk rapping of her door knocker shocked her out of her musings. Edward! He’d come back! She flew downstairs barefoot before Hazlett woke. It was well past two, but the gas lamps of the street were bright enough for her to see one of the Jane Street guards on her steps through the sidelight. Puzzled, she pulled the door open.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Lady Christie, but I saw your lights, else I wouldn’t bother you. There’s a young gentlemen here to see you. Says his name is Edward Christie, but the other man claimin’ to be Edward Christie just left a while ago, so that’s a lie. We’ve got our list, you know. Nobody gets in or out at night without us knowin’. Thought I’d double-check before we send the boy on his way.”
Security on Jane Street was strictly enforced. The men who kept their mistresses there protected their investments from dusk to dawn. They might be unfaithful to their wives, but their mistresses would stay true whether they wanted to or not. Of course there was plenty of daylight for dalliance, a foolishly overlooked fact.
“There must be some mistake.”
“That’s what we thought. These young bucks get in their cups and want to see the Janes for themselves, poor devils. Their time will come. I’ll get rid of him.” He tipped his cap and turned.
“Wait! What does this boy look like?”
“A nice-lookin’ lad. Quality. Dark hair. Real tall and skinny, all arms and legs, although his legs won’t be holdin’ him up much longer. Dead drunk, he is.”
Ned. Dear Lord. He’d been almost as tall and just as handsome as his father five years ago. She should let the guards send him home. Edward would be furious with them both. “It’s all right. I believe it must be my stepson. Please bring him to my door.”
“Aye, if you’re sure.” The man looked at her, doubt written all over his face.
“It’s quite all right. I’ll wake my butler.”
“That’s a good idea, my lady. You never know what a fellow might do when he’s jug-bitten.”
Caroline stepped back into the dark hallway. Hazlett was already coming down the stairs with a candle, a robe thrown over his striped butler’s pants.
“Lady Christie, I do hope everything is all right. I heard the disturbance and came as fast as I could.”
Poor Hazlett. His wiry white hair stood on end. If it was how he woke up every morning, he must give Mrs. Hazlett quite a chuckle. Caroline had never seen him at such a disadvantage, but then she rarely had callers in the middle of the night. “We have an unexpected visitor. Ned Christie, my husband’s oldest son. Or at least I believe it’s he who is at the gate. The guard says he’s not well.”
“Oh, dear. Shall I fetch a doctor?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary, but you could prepare a pot of coffee. Perhaps a sandwich. You needn’t wake Mrs. Hazlett.”
“No indeed. That is all within the realm of my capability. Would you like me to wait with you to assist the young gentleman into the drawing room?”
Caroline had dealt with her father’s, and then brother’s drinking for years. They had been easy to maneuver. Parkers were was not nearly as tall as Christies, however. She would hate to have Ned topple to the tile and ruin his pretty face. “Thank you, Hazlett. Your assistance will be most welcome.”
There was a fair amount of commotion in the street—some cursing by both parties, a snatch of song, and the unmistakable sound of retching—but at last a chastened Ned stumbled up the steps in the arms of the guard. Caroline would have to tip the poor man for his efforts tomorrow. For tonight, at least, she’d send Hazlett out with coffee and extra sandwiches.
“Caro!” Ned said with a loopy grin. He seemed to think that explained everything.
“Come sit down, Neddie. Ned.” Between the guard and Hazlett, they deposited Ned on a sofa in the downstairs drawing room. Caroline had redecorated recently with the proceeds from The Maid’s Master, her most popular volume yet, and hoped the boy had cast up his accounts sufficiently to keep her new green brocade safe. Somewhere along the way of his evening Ned had lost his neckcloth and one glove. His pants were torn, and his dark hair rivaled Hazlett’s in its defiance of gravity. She gave Hazlett instructions and the butler disappeared to the kitchen.
“I have not set eyes on you in five years. What brings you to my doorstep? And in this condition! Your father will not approve. He’s forbidden me from seeing any of you, you know.” Caroline tried her best to summon sternness, but was checking his forehead for fever and brushing his coat of crumbs.
“F-father never approves of anything he didn’t think of first. Pay no attention to him. Don’t m-myself.” He hiccupped.
“Easy for you to say. Oh, Neddie! Why are you here? I should send you home now that I know you’re not at death’s door.”
“Might be. Don’t feel at all the thing, Caro.” He looked up at her pleadingly with his father’s hazel eyes.
Caroline repressed a desire to slap some sense into him, and sniffed in disdain. “I should think not. You’ve fallen into an ale barrel.”
“Brandy, too. Inferior stuff. N-nasty.”
“I’m going to fill you with some coffee and send you home in a hack. And you must not tell your father you were here. Why are you here?”
“ ’Twas a m-mission of mercy. Wouldn’t come if it weren’t ’portant. Know I’m s’posed to cut you. L-like you never ex-existed. The old man will flay me alive for finding you, but I don’t c-care. The fellows tonight got to talkin’ about parents. Parents are the v-very devil, you know. Cut off one’s ’lowance for no good reason. Rules and r-regulations. One l-long and boring lecture after ’nother for the m-merest infraction. A Christie never does this. A Christie never does that. And then they do just as they please. Do y’know Father wants me to m-marry my cousin when I come of age? S-safe, he says, as if a fellow wants safe. She’s got a squint, and no chest to speak of. I won’t do it. But that’s not—no, I’m here for m’friend Rory. His father is the worst. He keeps a fancy whore here on J-jane Street while p-poor Rory doesn’t have a shilling to his name and his mama is home crying all the time.” He turned a mottled shade of red which clashed with his green hue. “Sorry. No doubt the wh-whore is a friend of yours. And I was going to tell you—” he trailed off, as if he really had no idea what he was supposed to say on poor Rory’s behalf.
So her location and reputation had trickled down to Ned. She felt instantly stricken for that which must be a considerable source of embarrassment for him. To know that his stepmother was installed on Jane Street—Edward could not possibly have told him. Even though Edward had been cruel,
he had been the soul of discretion. It was she who had let her whereabouts slip a time or two.
Caroline had an idea which Jane was involved in this love triangle—square, if one counted the destitute Rory. Sophie Rydell at Number Two complained long and loud about Lord Carmichael, who brought his domestic troubles with his wife and son into her bed more often than an erection, and was somewhat stingy with his gifts besides. “Does Rory’s father beat him or his mother?”
Ned gaped at her as if she’d grown two heads. In his inebriated state, she probably had. “I should say not! Rory would knock him flat. Good with his f-fists, he is.”
“Then I suggest you explain to your friend that gentlemen often seek dalliance outside the bonds of marriage. It’s the way of the ton. He’ll probably do the same to his wife when he marries.”
Ned’s dark brows drew together. “That’s it? You w-won’t talk to the girl?”
“And what am I to say to her?” Caroline asked in impatience. “Leave your comfortable house and go back on the street to sell oranges because some spoiled drunken boy is unhappy that his allowance is cut? Lord Carmichael will only find another mistress, I assure you.”
Ned hiccupped. “You r-really are a wonder. You do know everything. I n-never even said his name.”
The rattle of cups heralded Hazlett’s return. Ned declined a sandwich but gulped the hot coffee gratefully.
“Hazlett, if you don’t mind, wrap up the sandwiches and take them and a flask of coffee out to the guards. They’ve earned them tonight.”
“Very good, Lady Christie. Shall I procure a hackney cab for the young master as well?”
Ned was slumped over the table, all sharp elbows and knees. He had yet to fill out, but gave the promise of being as lean and elegant as his father. Caroline sighed. Ned could not become her reclamation project. She had been quite out of her league as a stepmother, as Edward had pointed out to her again and again.
Mistress by Marriage Page 3
