The emotion he’d sworn he would never again allow into his heart had burrowed its way in there nevertheless. But for her sake and his own, he struggled to suppress it.
What’s to become of me? I can’t hurt you, Beatrice. I simply mustn’t.
There was nothing to be done but remain as two friends who enjoyed good bed play for the rest of their month together, and afterward take matters no further than that.
Because he couldn’t ask for more. He couldn’t expect more. And he certainly didn’t deserve more.
And to lead Beatrice Weatherly into expecting more than a temporary liaison with him was both callous and cruel.
He couldn’t offer what he suddenly wanted to offer her…because the sorrowful fact was that he was already thoroughly married.
* * *
CLAWING HER WAY out of semiconsciousness, Beatrice stirred on the bed, stretching her limbs and wrinkling her nose.
Was that strange, foxy odor her? That tang of sweat and muskiness? She supposed it must be because her legs were still wide open and so was the vent in her drawers. Thank goodness the room was warm, or she could have caught a most inconvenient chill.
Full awareness came like the dowsing of rain from a spring storm, and snapping her eyes open, she snapped her legs shut, only to find that the sharp movement reminded her why her thighs were parted in the first place.
Ritchie!
Struggling upright, she saw him, illuminated by a turned-down lamp and the light of a small fire burning in the grate. Had he lit it himself? Beatrice sincerely hoped he had, given her state of outrageous dishabille.
But whatever had happened, Ritchie was drowsing too, just as she’d been, lounging in an easy chair, yards away across the room, his long legs stretched out before him. As she watched, he stirred as if he’d sensed her, then his eyes flicked open. Fully awake in the space of a heartbeat, he rose to his feet in a fluid, almost mammalian movement, and strode toward the bed, his gaze intent.
“How do you feel, Bea? Did you sleep?” He reached out to touch her face, and she experienced the most ridiculous urge to flinch away from him. Not because she didn’t want him to touch her, but because he hadn’t been lying beside her, holding her close, when she awoke.
“I’m well…thank you. And yes, I must have fallen asleep.” Not succumbing to her gut reaction, she manufactured a smile for him and turned her face into his caressing palm for a moment. Perhaps she’d been snoring? Maybe he’d got a cramp and had to rise? She’d make allowances for him.
“I thought you’d be asleep beside me,” murmured her lips, apparently having assumed a life of their own, independent of her reason.
Ritchie gave her an odd, strangely sad little smile.
“I don’t sleep with women.” He shrugged, his thumb moving lightly over her cheek, brushing her lips. “I make love to them. I fuck them. I profoundly enjoy their company. But I don’t spend the night in their beds.”
Beatrice frowned.
“Not ever?”
“No. Never.”
“Why not?”
It was Ritchie’s turn to frown, although it seemed to be at himself, rather than her.
“Just a foible of mine, Bea. Just a foible. It’s not through anything lacking in women…and God knows it’s not through anything lacking in you, my sweet. It’s just…my custom.”
A strange custom. And as Ritchie’s hand slid down over her jaw, her neck and her shoulder, and on down her arm, Beatrice trembled, a suddenly empty place inside her irrationally yearning for what she couldn’t have, rather than the many sweet gifts of pleasure with which he could still shower her.
Don’t be so contrary, Bea.
“Ah well, we all have our little customs, don’t we?” she said, feigning cheerfulness as he squeezed her hand and then let it loose.
“Indeed we do, don’t we?” He stood up, beside the bed. “Now, it’s very late, Bea, and we should get you to your home now. Unless, of course you’d like to stay here for the night?” His eyes flickered over her, making Beatrice realize that her breasts were still exposed, her nipples peeking pink and ripe above the edge of her corset and pulled-down chemise. “I’ll arrange for a maid to help with your dress, and a carriage to take you home in the morning. The breakfasts here are quite splendid, I believe.”
“You only believe? Ah, I suppose if you don’t actually sleep with anyone, you don’t know much about hotel breakfasts then?”
Why was she suddenly being a shrew? He owed her nothing. He was paying well over the odds already for what he was getting.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be shrill.”
Ritchie sat down again and reclaimed her hand, holding it in both of his, long fingers straying again over the pulse at her wrist.
“You weren’t shrill, Bea. The fault is mine. I should be more mindful of your fragile state, shouldn’t I?” Fingertips danced over her skin, calming somehow, almost hypnotic. “I’m used to women of the world, ladies who’ve been around a bedroom or two in sophisticated circumstances. They usually want to dash home to their husbands far faster than I want to leave their beds.”
“I’m not fragile. Not at all. I’m a robust country bloom, really, you know.”
He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, once, very precisely.
“But you were a virgin, Bea, and you gave me a beautiful gift. I should be more grateful.”
“But—” she began, feeling compelled to remind him of their agreement, their transaction.
Before she could, though, he set his other hand, just the fingertips, across her lips.
“What you gave me was more than I transacted for, Beatrice, far more.” His midnight eyes glittered. They were fierce, but their sheen looked suspiciously moist for a moment. “And you’ll be rewarded. Now, come along, get that beautiful body of yours out of bed and back into the rest of your clothes. I can help you if you require it, or if you prefer we can summon a maid.”
“I can manage, thank you.” Oh how she wished that they’d both been naked. But they hadn’t been, so she didn’t need a maid.
A short while later, the two of them descended the staircase together, both as superficially immaculate as when they’d arrived, although beneath her clothing and beneath her skin, Beatrice knew she could not have felt more different.
On Ritchie’s arm, she was no longer a virgin, she was a woman well bedded.
Aware of every inch of him, though barely touching his elbow, she was a woman in love.
God help me.
The foyer was silent as the grave, the lighting down low. The night porter had sent a runner to summon Ritchie’s carriage, and informed them it would be but a moment, gesturing to one of the deeply upholstered sofas in the social area where they might wait in comfort and out of the night chill.
“Let’s go outside and wait,” said Beatrice, suddenly oppressed. She was a woman with a lover who’d paid for her services, that was the reality of things, but lurking around the foyer only made the situation seem more seedy. The night air might be rank and smoggy, but its very coldness would clear the head all the same.
“You might catch a chill, Bea,” murmured Ritchie, looking doubtfully at her light costume, which had been perfectly appropriate for a balmy early evening, but now seemed insubstantial in the chilly small hours. In his topper and overcoat, he was far more adequately attired.
“Don’t worry. Remember, I’m a hardy breed. I’m quite warm and I’m sure the carriage won’t be but a moment.” Stepping out boldly, she made for the entrance, compelling him to come along with her.
Beneath the portico, it was very cold, and Beatrice steeled herself not to show her immediate shivers. It seemed Ritchie saw them anyway, because in a sudden sweeping gesture, he divested himself of his both his long, dark c
oat and his fine, fringed silk scarf and draped both the garments around Beatrice’s shoulders. When she opened her mouth to protest, he said, “I’m a hardier breed than you are. Don’t argue, Bea.”
Enveloped in Ritchie’s own heat, Beatrice almost sighed with pleasure. Wearing her lover’s coat was somehow, in a strange way, deeply intimate. A communion, just as their joined bodies in bed was. She allowed herself to shiver now, but not from the banished cold. Especially as Ritchie slung an arm around her shoulders, over his coat.
She looked at him. He looked at her. The strange bond was acknowledged though neither of them spoke. It felt almost peaceful to be waiting together in the foggy night.
But the quiet moment was shattered almost immediately as a trio of people descended the steps from Belanger’s too, and joined them under the portico.
Beatrice tried to ignore the newcomers, but it was difficult because the man and his two rather gaudily dressed female companions were all a little worse for drink, and noisily laughing. Ritchie frowned, and seemed on the point of remonstrating with them, but Beatrice closed her hand around his arm and silently held him back.
But the man seemed vaguely familiar, and when he managed to catch Beatrice’s eye, he gave her nod and a rather forward smirk, tipping his hat.
Who was he? Had she met him before? Then it dawned on her. She couldn’t quite remember his name, but he was someone she’d met briefly while at a small photography exhibition, during a rather hurried public outing with Eustace. Grinding her teeth, she wondered whether he recognized her from that event or from Eustace’s subsequent photographic handiwork.
“Beatrice? Is something wrong?”
She looked up into Ritchie’s concerned face to see his eyes snapping from her, to Eustace’s friend, and back again. “Is that man bothering you?” His jaw was tight, as if he were tensing like a coil spring to defend her.
“Not in the slightest. It’s only someone I met briefly at a function.” He didn’t seem convinced, but luckily, at that moment, a carriage hove into view along the misty street, and to her relief, Beatrice recognized the coachman as theirs.
The short ride home was passed in silence. Ritchie seemed deep in thought, his brow furrowed beneath his fine top hat, even though he held on to Beatrice’s hand as if either one of their lives depended on it. She seemed to feel every small muscle of his fingers and his palm through his glove and her own. Her body trembled, knowing what those strong fingers could do.
It wasn’t long before they reached South Mulberry Street, and Ritchie leaped out of the carriage to hand her out onto the pavement and escort her to the door.
“I’ll send a note tomorrow,” he said, his voice edged again as if he were troubled. “I have many commitments…and I may have to go out of town during the day. But we’ll see each other in the evening, at least. If only for a little while.”
Beatrice nodded, feeling edged herself. She wasn’t sure why he never slept with his women, but now that she knew that, she was afraid the conundrum might obsess her. Indeed, much as she longed for the familiar comfort of her own feather mattress, her mind now presented a picture of her sharing it with Ritchie, perhaps so she could ease the nag of whatever it was that was troubling him.
How sweet to sleep in those strong arms. Feel his warmth when the fire went out and the room started to cool down, and give back her own warmth.
How sweet to reach for him, in the night, and open her legs for him.
“Take care, Ritchie,” she said suddenly, not sure what hazards might face a gentleman of business, but anxious at the thought of any harm coming to him.
“You, too, beautiful Bea,” he said softly, then swept his top hat off his fair head, and leaned in close to kiss her.
It lasted but a moment, yet Beatrice had to fight with her own limbs not to grab at him and attempt to haul him by every scrap of force she possessed into the house with her. As it was, the lock clicked, and the doorknob turned in answer to her knock, and the door swung ajar, opened by the quiet but efficient new footman.
“I’ll send you a note,” repeated Ritchie, squeezing her hand and sweeping on his hat again, then letting her go as he stepped away. “Now go inside, my dear. You’ll catch a chill. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Then, tipping his hat, he strode away and climbed into the carriage, pausing only to cast her one last look, strangely complicated and yearning, before the coachman clicked the horse and it sped away into the night.
It wasn’t until Beatrice stood in the hall, and the footman held out his arm to receive it, that she realized she was still wearing Ritchie’s astrakhan-collared overcoat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Billets Doux
NO NOTE ARRIVED the following morning, despite all Beatrice’s exertion of wishful thinking and willing one to. Every time a servant appeared to bring her a newspaper or a cup of tea, or consult with her on some domestic matter, her heart lifted. Every time that there was no communication forthcoming, either Polly or Charlie or Jamie Brownlow or any other received a bright, but secretly hollow smile from Beatrice.
She was bored. Flighty. Unsettled. A new state for her. Ever a self-sufficient individual, Beatrice had always found ways to occupy herself, either with long hours of reading, with duties of the house, when times had been hard, or visiting and other social pursuits in better days.
Now there was no need for her help with housework, and no one really but Sofia Chamfleur to visit. Beatrice sent round a card, but got only a card in return from Sofia, promising a visit another day.
Too busy running her ladies’ house of assignation or whatever she calls it.
But Beatrice squashed her disappointment. No doubt Sofia’s risqué enterprise took up a lot of her time.
The copy of Punch she’d been reading—usually a favorite diversion—slid from Beatrice’s fingers. Its satirical mischief was as barbed and amusing as ever, but she couldn’t concentrate. She could only think of Ritchie, and his smile, his hands, his cock.
“You’ve ruined me, you blackguard,” she muttered, and yet the epithet was fond on her tongue, and she knew that the ruin was only that he’d spoiled her for all other men, because, unless she was mistaken, she loved him.
Absurd! I barely know the man…how can this have happened?
But it had. Which was why a sensible girl like her was now mooning around the house like a lovelorn ninny, hanging on the prospect of a few scribbled words from her object of adoration.
“Fiddlesticks!”
Leaping to her feet, Punch forgotten, Beatrice fetched a well-studied copy of The Modern Woman from the sideboard, and started flicking through it, seeking an advertisement she’d noted, announcing Addlington’s Patented Typewriting Machines. Better to be practical and look ahead. Be ready for…afterward.
But the advertisement didn’t fire her with quite the independent zeal that it had formerly done. Beatrice frowned, almost annoyed by the soft, slyly circling thoughts of marriage, night after night in bed with Ritchie, and maybe one or two small children with curly flaxen hair.
“Absurd,” she exclaimed again, and went to the bureau for a sheet of paper. She’d write to Addlington’s now, and order one of their machines to be delivered. At least she had the funds now, and she could begin practicing in preparation for an industrious life after Ritchie.
Before she’d put pen to the paper though, there was a knock at the door, and in her usual precipitous manner, Polly sidled in, not having waited for a by-your-leave.
Beatrice studied the girl momentarily as she held out the silver letter tray. What was it about her that was so different in recent days? A new confidence? No, she’d always had that. It was a glow, an air of suppressed excitement. As if Poll too was fearful of something but thrilled by it also.
I know how you feel…I know how yo
u feel…
“Letter for you, Miss Bea,” Polly announced unnecessarily.
Ritchie’s letter. It must be. Beatrice’s heart pounded hard, and she stopped using her musings about Polly as a diversionary tactic.
“Thank you, Polly.” She took it, slightly surprised by the thinness of the paper, and its cheap quality. That didn’t seem like Ritchie at all, nor did the indistinct hand. “Are…are you well, Polly? You look preoccupied somehow. You’re not concerned about your place, are you? You mustn’t be. It doesn’t matter that Mr. Brownlow’s here, and the others. You’ll always be the senior servant as long as I have anything to do with the matter.”
“Don’t you worry, Miss Bea. It’s not about my place…not really. And you shouldn’t concern yourself.” Polly smiled and winked. “You know me. I always have a way of making things work out right.”
Quite true. Polly was intelligent and resourceful and sensible. Probably far more so than her mistress, Beatrice reflected ruefully.
“Very well, then, Poll.” Beatrice turned the letter over in her fingers, a stir of disquiet rippling. “But if you should ever need to discuss anything, you will come to me, won’t you?”
Polly bobbed her usual cursory curtsy. “Thank you, Miss Bea. Don’t worry, you’ll be the very first I’ll come to, that’s for sure.”
That sounded ominous, but not much so as the letter seemed. Beatrice studied the envelope, still unopened, when Polly had gone.
Not from Ritchie. Absolutely not. On closer inspection the writing bore no resemblance to the firm, decisive hand that had leaped from the page in his proposal.
And yet it was still familiar, but from a far different source, unfortunately.
My dearest Beatrice,
I know we did not part on the best of terms, and perhaps I was a little hasty in breaking off our engagement. The business of the photographs was unfortunate. By a stroke of bad luck, a fellow from the camera club got hold of the plates and seeing their rather titillating nature, he took it upon himself to make a bit of coin from them. They were being circulated before I could pursue the matter, and already in too many hands to save your reputation.
In the Flesh Page 24
