But sleep wouldn’t come. She hated nights like that, when her old demons took root and wouldn’t leave. She supposed she deserved every minute of their haunting—she’d courted sin with naïve fervor, caught it, embraced it.
She’d loved Nicky with all her heart. He was nearly her twin, born just fifteen months before she was. They’d been inseparable until he was sent off to school. Caroline was nearly joyful when her father couldn’t afford to send him to university. But by then he had a new friend, a better friend, Andrew Rossiter. When Caroline’s father died suddenly over a hand of bad cards, Nicky invited Andrew to live with them. An orphan himself with no particular place to go, Andrew had happily assented. Their guardian, a man as improvident as their father, didn’t trouble himself to supervise them, preferring to spend their tiny inheritance in far-off London. When then sensible Mary eloped with her soldier, the three of them had the house to themselves.
There was no one to tell them what to do. There was no one to tell them what not to do. So they did everything, until the money ran out.
It was Andrew who got the bright idea to turn their home into a kind of hotel for vice. Gentlemen who wanted to escape the strictures of town were happy to comply with their exorbitant tariffs. Every month of the year they came for one week of unlimited food, unlimited wine, unlimited sex, gambling, drugs—everything and anything was available for the right price chez Parker. There was no limit to Andrew’s connections or imagination. Caroline was sheltered from most of the debauchery, actually locked safe in her room, because Nicky foolishly hoped she’d make a good marriage someday. He was far more anxious than she was for her to find a rich man to improve the family coffers.
Caroline had already found the man she wanted. He wasn’t rich, but he had the key to her room, and he had found her. She’d been too stupid to see why he wanted her, imagining it was her beauty—which was undeniable and not at all vain for her to acknowledge—her carefree spirit, her loving heart. She was a most willing pupil in each and every one of Andrew Rossiter’s lessons, odd as they had sometimes seemed. She grew used to everything, and then he made her crave it.
It wasn’t until her brother shot himself that she found out the truth. And by then, it was too late for all of them.
Caroline’s entire life was filled with “too lates.” It was certainly too late to be awake, reliving a nightmare. It was too late to find happiness with Edward, too late to be a mother. Even her manuscript would arrive too late, unless she could find a way to churn the words out faster between servicing her husband on his schedule and regretting she had ever met him.
But it was just for a few weeks. She could endure anything. She already had.
Chapter 6
His appetites were insatiable, keeping her a slave from morning until night, until the hours turned into days and Mariette heard no cock crow but his.
—Dreams at Dawn
There was the faintest tickling on her nose. The damn cat and its tail. Caroline blew out a stream of air to shoo him away, but didn’t open her eyes, unwilling to see Harold’s equipment so close and so early in the morning. But the sensation increased, dancing across her eyelids like little fairy feet. Caroline scrunched up her face and rolled to the side. A feather-light stroke from her jaw to her clavicle made her reconsider. Either Harold had developed opposable thumbs, or she was being touched by a human. She waited, wondering if she should cry out for help or lie back and enjoy the gentle assault. A quick glance up to the mirror on the ceiling gave her the answer.
She had finally slept like the dead, never hearing Edward’s footsteps, never seeing him undress, never smelling his lime-scented skin. But she felt him now, and soon she would taste him—as he was tasting her. A gossamer kiss on her bare shoulder. A nip at the base of her throat. His warm tongue edging into her ear, which always drove her mad.
“Don’t pretend you are still asleep. You cannot be.”
But she would pretend. Just to see how far he’d go.
She didn’t have long to wait to find out. He pulled her nightgown up, fitting himself behind her, hard and hot. One hand cupped a breast, thumbing her nipple to a tight peak. That task accomplished, he traced a line from her belly to her hip, coming to rest, palm flat. She felt each warm finger splayed in ownership.
Surely he wasn’t going to stop there. She wiggled up against him to urge him on.
She felt his lips curve on her back. She’d seen his smug smile before; he had every right to it. “I knew you were awake. Ask me nicely, and I’ll wish you a very good morning.”
“Nicely,” she whispered, and he complied. A long finger teased her arse, then swept forward to her slit, dipped into its moisture, then rubbed against the top of her sex. He circled diligently until the room spun, Caroline clenching her nightgown to keep from touching herself. She wanted his skin covering hers, his weight overpowering her. She wanted to see him in the mirror splitting her apart. Understanding her unspoken need, he pushed her back and tore the nightgown over her head.
His mouth blanketed her cry as he penetrated her, his tongue mimicking each thrust. They were joined from head to toe, layered so close the only parts of her the mirror reflected were her wide eyes, the red of her hair on the pillow and her hands scoring his back. Her legs locked beneath him, then he twisted, lifting her from the bed as she rose to become even closer. He had never been so deep; she had never been so deep in trouble. For what was she to do when he left her again?
He mistook her sob for pleasure, then made it true, driving into her with reckless abandon, freeing them both. Stroke upon stroke, thrust upon thrust they tumbled together, heedless of anything but the electric unity of his skin to hers. She curled into him, transported, her mouth soft with love. But she swallowed the words—he would hear only desperation. Manipulation. They had never claimed to love each other, and he wouldn’t trust her.
Her orgasm took her hopeless speech away anyway. She felt nothing but the pure sin of his cock spilling inside her, his hand wedged between them pressing and circling her clitoris, his teeth at her throat. She bit him back. Let the House of Lords weigh that evidence.
When she spoke, it was with careful disinterest. “I expect you’ve brought the timetable with you.”
Edward flopped onto his back and looked chagrinned. “I’m afraid I didn’t have time to draw one up. I’ll work it out later and send it ’round.”
She kept her tone severe, schoolmistressy. “I can’t have any more unscheduled incidents like this. I want sufficient notice in the future.”
“You didn’t throw me out of bed.” He looked far too proud of himself. His facial expression implied a woman would have to be an idiot to throw Edward Christie out of bed.
Well, she was an idiot. “I was asleep! And then it was too late. Get up, Edward. I have a busy day ahead and want some privacy.”
He hesitated only a moment. “All right, Caro. I got what I came for. More than I expected, actually. It was very pleasant.”
She knew he was baiting her. She thought the top of her head was exploding when she orgasmed. Surely he felt the same. “Yes. I suppose it was adequate. Have a nice day.” She slipped into her dressing room to use the commode, hoping he’d have the good taste to leave.
When she came out, he was gone. Baron Christie was indeed the epitome of good taste. And an exceptionally fast dresser. Remembering poor Lizzie, she squelched the desire to throw something, and rang for breakfast instead. She would write today. And write and write and write.
Her Pride and Artifice notebook lay where anyone could find it. Now that Edward was a fixture in her bedroom, that would have to change. Perhaps it was still safe—Edward had always complained about her handwriting, claiming he couldn’t read it. Perhaps that was why he’d been in such a tizzy when he read her letter and learned that Ned had been there. Fortunately Garrett had no such difficulty editing her novels. His handwriting was even worse than hers.
She had been the bane of her governess’s existence, but the sch
oolroom had held no interest for her when there were fells to walk and her brother to chase after. Nicky had no luck with his tutors either, and was sent off to school quite young—more to rid her father of one more distraction than his desire to see his heir educated properly. School was where Nicky changed and forged his deadly friendship with Andrew Rossiter. The poet (not the viscount) Pope’s words were never truer—
A little learning is a dangerous thing;
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring:
There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
And drinking largely sobers us again.
Well, apparently something had sunk in, Caroline thought wryly. Wasn’t she just a font of poetry and philosophy this morning? She dipped her pen in the little crystal pot of ink and let it hover over the page. A tiny drop spread onto the page just as she felt Edward’s semen gush forth. She needed a bath desperately, but working on the book each morning was like drilling before going into battle. It made her limber so she could maneuver over the hills and valleys of her pages for Garrett. He would not be pleased to know she spent an hour each day wasting her words. She shut her eyes, picturing Edward at his most insufferable. It was not a difficult image to summon, and she began to write.
“You shall do as I say. You will obey me in everything. And I mean everything.” The baron flexed his long fingers, as though he couldn’t wait to have her at his mercy.
“Not while I have breath!” Constance’s eyes flashed, her heart beating wildly. Desperately, she dashed to the door.
“It is locked, and only I have the key.”
He advanced toward her, his green eyes glittering like evil glass.
Hell and damnation. Glass could not be evil, could it? Caroline drew a black line through evil glass, then struck through the entire passage. Her muse had departed rather suddenly and locked her in the room with the baron and Constance. At that moment Caroline didn’t care if the baron used his long fingers to strangle Constance. Her private book was not going at all well. The baron, despite his evil glassy eyes, was really a gentleman at heart. She was very much afraid he was turning into a hopeless hero, not that Constance deserved him. She was simply too stupid to live.
As for Caroline’s next heroine, the harlot, she was locked up firmly in a dark drawer, along with her future husband. Her story had degenerated so badly, Garrett would never publish it as is, if she ever finished it. Her deadline was just days away and for the life of her, she couldn’t care about the next installment of Courtesan Court. It was as if Edward’s shadow fell over her shoulder, blotting out her writing sun.
Caroline closed the notebook, wishing she could close her thoughts away with such ease. Edward’s wretched little schedule was to arrive later. For the next three weeks, he would detail to the hour and the minute when he expected her to be available to him. Probably no two days would be alike—Edward was a busy man with numerous obligations. She was prepared to be perpetually off balance. For a woman who had fought a lengthy battle to wrestle her haphazard life into some order, it was like offering opium to an addict. She’d be in a haze for the foreseeable future.
But perhaps Edward would be similarly afflicted. She could only hope he’d be so befuddled from lust and lack of sleep he’d walk in front of a dray cart and be crushed. That had happened to the hero in Love Lane. The heroine had nursed him back to health, but Caroline would do no such thing. It would be preferable to be a widow rather than a divorcee, not that she really wished Edward dead or ever expected to join the ranks of society again. He had seen to that when he moved her to Jane Street, and she’d compounded the problem when she began to write her books.
It was ludicrous that people read them to escape their everyday problems, when her own life was so complicated. She was hardly a relationship expert, and it was by far easier to reform a rake or bring a villain to justice on the page than it was to live with a flesh-and-blood man. Not that Edward had ever been a rake or a villain. It might have gone easier for her if he had.
She put the pen down on its tray and capped the ink. It was pointless to think she’d be able to write anything. Thoughts of Edward and the life she’d lost were swamping her, drowning her, making her feel uncharacteristically sorry for herself. Most days she shrugged off her blues, pinned a jewel to her breast, poured a cup of tea, pulled up a weed, or lent an ear to someone even less fortunate.
Would he understand if she told him everything? She couldn’t imagine telling him all her secrets. If he held her in contempt knowing just a fraction of them, she couldn’t fathom what he’d feel if he knew the whole. His own green eyes would glitter like evil glass. She would wind up in court, not for a divorce but for murder.
She glanced at the new clock on the mantel. He might be back tonight. She had the whole day before her to have a long bath and do something, if she could only think what. She’d already planned the menus for the week, filled her unbroken vases with flowers, inspected Harold for fleas. She had no friends to write to, children’s clothes to mend, piano to play. Caroline tried to remember what she did to fill her days before Edward stepped back into them, but she was as blank as the page of her manuscript.
She could go shopping. She would go shopping—to buy red dresses that Edward would hate. She’d pledged to her friend Charlotte she would do so. If Caroline had to endure Edward underfoot, she would make him suffer, at least visually.
She had been wearing a red dress when she met him, a dress the color of ripe cherries designed to make a lasting impression. Its audacity had scandalized her cousin’s wife and every other woman in Lady Huntington’s ballroom. It had shocked the gentlemen too, but in precisely the way Caroline hoped. There wasn’t time or money to flutter about in pasty pastels. Caroline had needed a husband fast.
Once they were married, Edward expected her to hang that red dress in the closet. There were a great many things she’d had to give up to please Edward and his impeccable Christie standards, and the closet got crowded. But she had been eager for change, for structure, for respectability. Perhaps if she’d had a few more months, she could have pounded herself into submission.
Oh, who was she kidding? She was a red dress girl at heart.
“Lizzie! Fetch my bonnet and gloves, and yours too. We’re going shopping to find the reddest dress in all of London!”
Edward wore his Christie face. His son had not perfected his own. Ned was a veritable barometer of emotion, his mercury rising and falling, shame-faced one moment, defiant the next. It was all Edward could do to keep himself from reaching across his mahogany desk to throttle the boy.
One was mistaken to assume Edward had no feelings, but they were kept carefully in check. It was better that way. Slow and steady won the race, although he wondered if the rules might have changed lately while he wasn’t looking. He’d always obeyed his parents, firmly convinced they knew what was best for him. They’d not gone wrong with Alice, as comfortable a wife as a man could have. Why, if he hadn’t married her, his handsome sullen son and heir would not be sitting in front of him, prattling nonsense about his cousin Amelia, of all things.
Edward interrupted. “You have explained the reason you sought out my estranged wife, Ned, despite my express, explicit orders forbidding you to contact her. A barely satisfactory explanation, fueled by foolishness and an excess of drink. One must choose one’s friends carefully, Ned. A Christie examines the character of an acquaintance, not just the convenience. I am aware Rory Carmichael is a school chum, but I wouldn’t choose him as a friend for you.”
“Rory has plenty of character! It’s his father who’s at fault with a whore on Jane Street. I thought Caro—” Ned flushed, apparently realizing he hadn’t thought at all.
“You do realize you put her in an awkward situation, and breached her hospitality most egregiously. I expect you will write her a letter to apologize.”
Ned shifted in his straight-back chair. Edward had purposely told the boy to bring it over to sit on. He wasn’t worthy yet of the c
omfortable leather chair just a few feet away. “Why can’t I apologize in person? Take flowers or something.”
“She already has a garden, Ned. Quite a fine one. Your flowers would be superfluous. You’re not to have further contact with her. I forbid it. Again, and this time you will listen.”
Ned looked mulish. “I don’t see why. She’s very nice, even if you don’t like her.”
“I like her well enough.” Edward looked down at his desk blotter, remembering the morning. How very inadequate the word like was. “But we don’t suit as man and wife. I haven’t told anyone yet, but I’ve resolved to divorce her. You can see why a visit from you would be unwelcome.”
Ned’s complexion reverted to yesterday’s hangover pallor. “Divorce! But you can’t! A Christie cannot get divorced!”
Edward sat back in his leather chair, surprised at the vehemence of his son. “I am fully aware of the scandal that will result, which is why I am taking you into my confidence to prepare for it. It will not be easy—for any of us.”
“But Caro—she’ll be a complete outcast!”
“Divorce is a mere formality. She is already proscribed from polite society.”
“By you! Because you bought her that damn house!”
Edward’s hand curled around a glass paperweight. “Edward Allerton Christie, do not use that tone with me.”
Ned stood up, shaking. “Well, it’s true! If she was unfaithful, it’s because you’re the coldest man in creation! And I’ll not be saddled with Amelia in two years, because I am not cold. You can tell Uncle Roger that I’d rather marry a Jane Street courtesan than his flat-chested lackwit! Have you ever talked to Cousin Amelia? She’s positively insipid!”
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