by Gayle Eden
Harry was silent a moment, then went on, “Ladies like myself are somewhat excused from high expectations, because of how I was brought up, and my father’s unconventional life. In truth, my wealth aside, they would not welcome me in their families, wed to their brothers and sons, because you—are the ideal. Your bloodlines and fortune are only icing on the cake. You’ve been the ideal young woman, biddable, and perfectly mannered…”
Caroline grimaced. “Ignorant.”
“One of your reputation is seen as better off for being naive and unaware of the world, beyond what high society creates in their exclusive kingdom.”
“I know.” Caroline shook her head. “Since I met you, Harry, I can see why some things are drummed in our heads, why we are so protected and kept ignorant. What really astounds me, is that men…men live completely unfettered lives, gaming, having their mistresses, doing whatever they desire, and then show another image entirely, an act, when they are doing the pretty at tea. The fact that they want us ignorant is…bloody insulting!”
“It would not have been a year ago,” Harry, uttered dryly.
“No.” Caroline had to laugh.
After looking at the clock, Caroline said, “I must go soon. We’ve the Enderson’s soirée tonight.” She went to put her cloak on whilst Harry went out, supposedly to hire a hack.
It was indeed waiting at the curb when Caroline exited and her friend saw her off with, “We’ll talk again at the park in the morning.”
“Yes. Harry—do nothing more if you think ‘tis dangerous. I should not involve you…”
“Nonsense. I am far too curious to stop now.” Harry winked and stepped away with a wave.
~
Caroline had been home several hours. She went downstairs before getting formally dressed, aiming to speak to her father—out of guilt mostly, because she had never had to keep secrets from him. She had never been any other sort of daughter than obedient.
The library doors were slightly cracked and she spied him before her hand could knock. He stood looking out the windows at the rainy night.
Carefully easing the door open, she stepped in, still studying his posture, suddenly really seeing him. He seemed a lonely figure standing there.
She’d been so involved in her training and schedule-filled social life, she’d never actually considered what it must have been like for him—having her mother live somewhere else, besides under his roof.
Caroline recalled that when she had first learned about Natasha and the girl, she had been angry, petulant and jealous… However, it had not lasted. She knew her father somewhat, at least the heart of him and it was good, solid. In addition, twenty years was a long time to hold in a secret.
He must have sensed her presence for he turned, his face half lit by the lamp on his desk. “Caroline, m’dear, have I kept you waiting?” He glanced at the clock. “Good heavens look at the time.”
She said quickly, “No. Actually, Father, I thought we could cry off tonight. It has been a hectic week, and I’ve a few letters to write, the streets are terribly damp.” Distantly appalled at how well she could lie, Caroline also noticed his distracted air. She knew she’d come upon him whilst he was in a muse.
“Yes. Yes of course.” He came toward her, and took her shoulders in his hands, looking her over. “You are well, though. No fevers?”
“Perfectly well.” She laughed. Realizing, she had never cried off a social event. No matter how sick she had been.
Taking his hands, she kissed them and held them whilst looking over his face. “Don’t worry about me, father. Perhaps the both of us could use an early night? The pace is hectic this season.”
“Yes.”
Loving him, her mind on those secrets, Caroline felt her heart swell, and smiled gently when she said, “You are a good man, Father. I am very lucky to be your daughter.”
He loosed her hold and hugged her a moment, gruffly saying, “It’s very easy to father you, Caroline. You’ve been an angel.”
Mentally wincing, she took comfort in his embrace and then he released her. They spoke a bit more before she took her leave. Looking back over her shoulder, Caroline noticed he sat at the desk now, hands on the chair arms and eyes brooding on the rain-streaked window.
“Father?”
“Hmm?” He turned his head slowly toward her.
Hand on the door facing, she murmured, “None of us can live up to perfection. Not really. But we’re strong enough inside to handle our flaws and shortcomings, and have love enough to accept each other’s, too.” She looked forward again and went on her way, up the stairs and to her rooms.
As she dressed to slip out to the coffeehouse, Caroline thought of her father sitting down there in his thoughts, perhaps wondering if his life would have been different had the gypsy loved him?
It was the first time since her mind had been liberated by Harry that she realized he lived in a prison of rules and strict adherence too. It may have been different had it made him happy, but Caroline knew he was not. Of late, she noticed very few people were happy in their world. Everyone pretended.
Thinking of her own future, of the expectations written there, she saw no way out of it for herself either. Her father would do his duty, that duty would mean approving a husband for her, and that husband would have to be from the “eligible” in their realm.
Oh, bloody hell. What a depressing thought. To know one would live their life doing the same as the generation before, no freedom, no love, and no passion.
“Non. You must not go, mademoiselle,” the petite French maid whispered while she collected the discarded toweling from Caroline’s bathing. “It is terrible out. And this….man, he is not one your father would approve of.”
“You don’t know that, Jeanne.”
“Oui. I do. If he approve, you would be going to the ball, not some….tryst.”
Caroline pulled the sleeves up on her shoulders. The wide V-cut of the long sleeved black dress made the material barely cover them. She had added a cape.
“I will be perfectly fine. And, you will keep this to yourself. Don’t you have a young gentleman you would like to see tonight? Or a book to read.”
Jennie frowned, pouted those pink lips at her, and then smiled and shrugged. “Oui. I should like to see someone.”
“Famous. I shall let you out wherever you wish, and collect you on the way home.”
“We must be very quiet leaving.”
“Oui.” Caroline laughed and watched her dash away to get her cloak. They could leave by the back way and none the wiser.
* * * *
Blaise ignored his cousin’s curious presence in his chambers whilst he was dressing himself, in his black pantaloons, boots, and a lawn shirt. He added a thigh length jacket in black and forewent a neck cloth.
As he was conversing with the valet, checking to make sure his boots had a good polish, then filling his coat pocket with coin, penknife, the usual, he knew his cousin was leaning against the door facing—likely grinning.
Finished dressing, he used his hand to follow the brush and make sure his hair was neat, and then he cleaned the glasses and put them on. A cape finished everything off. Though he picked up gloves, he did not put them on.
“Going out later?” He asked his cousin casually whilst Ry walked down the stairs with him.
“Yes, I had planned to join a game of cards. However, if you prefer I stay out…” He did not have to see that grin to hear it.
“Not at all,” Blaise said casually. “Enjoy yourself.”
Since he planned to walk the short space to the coffeehouse, they were standing just in the entry when he said, “See what information you can pick up—“
“—On Raith? I have been. He’s all but a ghost if he is living in his London house, because none seem to know him.”
“He wasn’t all that social that I recall.” Blaise nodded and opened the door, hearing the rain.
Ry handed him an umbrella out of the stand. “You’ll ruin that shin
e on your boots.”
“It’s a short walk.”
“About Raith. I’ll keep asking.”
“Thanks. I suppose if he is up to something—dangerous, it pays to be anonymous.”
“Yes.”
Out on the street, umbrella up, Blaise was preoccupied counting his steps. He reached the coffeehouse with minimal mishaps, having heard a few shouts of warning he’d heeded crossing the street, but overall he was fine. Letting the umbrella down, he thanked a patron who held the door for him.
Blaise had a discreet word with the owner. Military men and their wives, families, frequented the place but there were tables further back, behind plants and screens, where a lonely soldier or sailor could have coffee and meal with a lady companion.
The proprietor led him that way, giving him a corner table. He could hear the rain, carriage, and coaches passing, through the window, but he sensed the intimacy and privacy of the table, which pleased him.
For a while, he sat sipping coffee, part of him mocking himself, because his sense was that the lady M, as he dubbed her, was some bold chit having her fun at his expense. The other half though, could not call her that young, because he liked her voice, what she had said, and God knew, the scent she wore had stirred him embarrassingly.
Blaise told himself he was a grown man and that he could take being a fool once, if she did not show up. However, he also admitted he had never spent time with a woman—been interested in her—beyond the necessary. When he had sight, he could appreciate a beautiful woman. He could lust for one. But, emotionally, intellectually, no. He categorized them.
If the woman he had met today fulfilled his worst expectations—he already labeled that type beforehand, spoiled, petulant, immature, which is why he did not move in the circles that Jules chose to. He did not know how his brother stood that life. He supposed that was why they were night and day.
Jules seemed born to the role of Earl and Heir.
Blaise could recall passing by Jules rooms, seeing his brother sitting by the window with a book, or busy writing at his desk. Blaise liked to read, but he took his reading outdoors. He had to be physical. To be fair, he remembered the Duchess letting many tutors go, if they did not teach Jules the way she thought they should. Moreover, he did recall how strict they were. Jules’s growing up did not allow the time to get into the mischief he had.
Jules was a pretty boy too, and it was not overlooked by servants who fawned, or males who secretly laughed at him, called him effeminate, out of jealousy.
Blaise was comfortable with his own looks, at one time called handsomeness, but far from preoccupied with it, seeing the benefit in stamina and strength too, in the military—because his body had to be a machine. It had to have the strength and endurance to perform. However, Jules could ride, shoot and fence, and had the same masters in that he did. However, he doubted anyone noticed that. He knew there was not an hour unsupervised in his brother’s life.
Not—that he felt sorry for Jules. The man was icy, aloof, too handsome by half, and rich besides. The Jules he had seen at a few social gatherings, was difficult to like, but easy to admire. Still, such a life would stifle Blaise, make him daft.
He had to admit that something—he did not know what yet, was putting a strain on the Earl. It almost made Jules seem as human as the rest of them. However, he also knew someone like Jules would not handle it the same way because of the lofty height he perched himself on, and the air of perfection he strove to maintain.
“Good evening.”
Blaise sat back, pulled from his thoughts by the familiar sound of that melodious voice.
“Lady M?”
She chuckled. “Oh, I like that. Yes.”
He heard her speak, to request coffee and biscuits.
When she sat, he breathed in her perfume and the fresh scent of rain.
Her fingertips reached across, to lightly touch his on the table. “You look very nice tonight, Captain. Quite handsome.”
“Thank you.” He leaned and reached toward her shoulder, feeling skin and the edge of her gown, a very rich silk gown, on very soft skin. “What color is it?” He sat back.
“Black.” Her voice held a slight husk. “Silk, with a velvet bodice.”
He murmured, “I am endeavoring to put your description together. It helps… if I can touch.”
There was a small sound from her before she returned, “Your touch doesn’t offend me.”
He decided to take it for what it was. “I’m glad to hear that.”
Blaise waited while he heard the clink of the cup and saucer. He could sense the waiter, and when the man left them, he said, “Is the table discreet enough for you?”
“Do I need discretion?”
He heard a clink as she stirred milk into her coffee. She murmured, before he could retort to that quip, “Yes. Captain. This is a very nice table. The lighting is mellow and just warm enough. I quite like the coffee house atmosphere. The patrons seemed so…relaxed.”
“As opposed to?”
“Ah. I will not take the bait.” She laughed again. “What shall we talk about besides?”
“Anything but war.”
“Certainly. Books?”
They did speak of books, reading and then moved on, to music, horses—oddly enough, she brought up politics. Her views were conservative which revealed much. He found that interesting, but it was her company that mattered. He had nothing against poetry, but his leisure time had been limited. He was glad to not go in that direction for long.
It was an unusual evening, an out-of-character situation for Blaise. He could tell much in what she did and did not reveal, and yet he deliberately, selfishly ignored it. Somewhere in the pit of his stomach, he felt warnings and caution—that if not playing the sort of game he had accused her of earlier, she was still out of her element and not free to pursue anything. He kept pushing it down though.
After the first hour, some filled with her pleasant laughter and his own chuckles, it was obvious too that they had sexual chemistry. Blaise felt his senses filling in that small intimate space with their hands within touching distance, resting on the table and the rain-drenched window at his shoulder—it was a hum just under the surface.
He was aware of his blindness too, in frustrating ways, wishing he could see her smile, her eyes, and her lips. Nevertheless, his lack of sight did not dull anything. It instead heightened it. Blaise felt prickles, at the side of his neck, sensations when she laughed or while she was simply expounding on something.
It was the damndedst thing.
The rain thickened outside. The aroma from pipes and cigars mingled with coffee. The other patrons thinned out, and still they sat talking. He in quiet tones, not caring what he said but listening to her speaking of some breed of rose and how fragrant it was, that some painter had captured it just perfectly in morning dew.
In a way, he wanted the mystery between them. It gave him a sense, that his blindness was not an obstacle, a lie perhaps that it did not matter to her. Not knowing who she was gave him leave to “experience” her with no preconceived notions.
There came a silence when Blaise realized they had been there longer than he was aware of. The patrons were mostly gone.
“How long…"
“I’ve an hour more, possibly.”
He nodded and stood, sensing she had as he heard the swish of her clothing whilst he counted coins for the table.
She led the way out.
He discerned the empty tables, lingering smoke wafting as they exited. Under the awning, he raised the umbrella, bringing her to his side in the noisy rain.
It was she who turned up the street, and he walked with her, keeping her close to his side, feeling the thickness of the rain not only from the pelting on the umbrella but the splash of his boots.
She stopped.
Blaise discerned they were under another awning. Lowering the umbrella, still unfurled, to block them from the street, he breathed in. “Macelvie’s print shop?”
/>
“Yes. It is closed.”
His arm still half around her shoulders, body turned to her, Blaise had felt the brush of her cloak hood when they walked, and the wafting scent of her perfume.
Sensing she was looking at him, they huddled under the awning back in a recess near the printer’s doors, Blaise could also feel the heat of his own body flushed, and hers too.
She had not pulled away from him, but seemed instead to stay closer than she had to. He let the umbrella block them from passing coaches and moved his hand from behind her, to touch her jaw, inside the cloak hood. He could feel her face tilt up, feel and sense, the tension. He lowered his head slowly, his mouth a breath away, feeling the stroke of her breathing fan his lips.
He had wanted to do this from the moment she had slammed into him at the tobacco shop.
When he kissed her, lips fitting to lips, his skin seemed to tighten over his frame. After a press against the softness, testing, he opened and let his tongue seek entry, warm air rushing from his nose when she allowed him in.
The rest happened in a span of intimate moments, his tongue inside her mouth, tasting coffee, sweetness, and silken, tender skin, warm feminine flavors. Christ—her hand slipped under his jacket, the touch sliding from his side to his back, so that the sensations stirred his body, as if the thin lawn shirt did not cover his skin.
Moving his head slowly, sensually, his tongue tasting hers, heated flesh and pounding blood magnified everything tenfold. Her eagerness, that split second she leaned more, tasted more, and was on her toes to reach more of him, Blaise moved his arm to her spine, lifting, holding her to him, the thin cape nothing as his shirt was nothing, with their breaths and damp skin mingling scents. He kissed her, as he had no other, as he neither hungered nor wanted to kiss another. The rain and traffic, the world, his blindness, nothing intruded nor penetrated beyond that.
