by Nina Mason
“Forgive me for staying away so long,” he said with a penitent dip of his head. “I would have called sooner had I not taken ill almost the moment I arrived in London.”
Concern creased her brow. “Took ill? With naught too serious, I hope.”
“The smallpox,” he said. “Your father attended me, and it was from him I learned where to find you.”
“I see.” A smile brightened her countenance. “And dare I hope the purpose of your visit is to procure more than a tonic?”
“’Tis indeed,” he said, believing he inferred her meaning correctly. “Though my purpose may not be the one you desire. “
Disappointment flickered behind her steady blue gaze. “Then, you are yet married?”
“I am,” he returned crisply. “And now have a son—and ’tis for his welfare I have sought you out.”
Displeasure darkened her countenance. “So, this is not purely a social call?”
“Not purely, no,” he said, beset by guilt. “Though it does my heart good to see you doing and looking so well.”
“You look well yourself. Surprisingly well, considering the recentness of your affliction.” She came out from behind the table and held out her hand to him. “Will you not shake hands with me? For, to the best of my recollection, we were dear to each other when last we parted company.”
Stepping closer, he took the offered hand in his. Her skin was soft, her fingers long and delicate. As he bent to press a kiss to her knuckles, her familiar homey scent comingled with the shop’s pleasant herbal fragrance. He saw himself upon the bed in her father’s house as the hand he now held ran a soapy sponge over his genitals. The memory provoked an unwelcome flicker of desire.
God give me strength.
She’d only grown in beauty and still smelled enticingly of freshly baked bread.
All at once, he wished he’d allowed Maggie to come with him. Letting go of Gemma’s hand, he averted his gaze and cleared his throat. “I wonder if you condone the practice of engrafting for the smallpox. My wife had the treatment at the convent where she was raised, and we wish very much to have our son protected from the contagion in a similar manner.”
“I see.” Her words were short and her cheeks pink with pique. “And what made you think of me?”
“Your father informed me no doctors in England will perform the procedure, and I remembered…” He licked his lips, unsure how to finish without giving offense. After a moment, he continued along what seemed a safer course. “Well, let me just say…you seemed more open-minded about new approaches to physicking than most of your profession.”
Lifting her hand to his face, she ran her fingers over the pockmarks on his cheeks. “I wish you had let me attend you instead of my father. For I have plasters that would have reduced the scarring. Not that your good looks have been spoiled overmuch. For, to my eye, you are still as handsome as ever. I hope your fortunate wife agrees with me—and counts her blessings for having secured such a well-favored and faithful husband.”
“I flatter myself she does.” His insides squirmed under the intimacy of her touch. “And I, in turn, count mine for her.”
“So, you are still as enamored of her as ever? Five years has not rubbed the gilding off the pedestal upon which you keep your lady?”
“Not at all,” he said. “And, with any luck, another five—or fifty, if we should be so blessed—will do no more to dull her luster in my eyes.”
She withdrew her hand and, for a moment, he feared she might embrace him. Instead, she stepped around him, locked the door, and turned over the open sign hanging in the window.
Leeriness mushroomed in his chest. He cared not for where this appeared to be leading. She was too familiar, too forward, and now had locked the door against interruptions. Though his ego was flattered, his good sense put him on guard. He was in need of a rather large favor, and her attractions might prove hard to resist.
Passing him again, she took hold of his arm and pulled him toward a door he assumed led to her private chambers. “Do you remember the agreement we once made? The one you reneged upon?”
“I do indeed,” he said, treading with caution.
“I recall it vividly—and have thought upon it many hours since. Far from the balm I had intended our alliance to be, it became naught but a source of pain. For my marriage turned out to be even more unharmonious than I’d feared. My husband abused me atrociously, you see, in word as well as deed.”
Outrage blazed behind Robert’s breastbone. “He beat you?”
“He did indeed.” She colored a little. “Every chance he got. And forced himself upon my person when out of his senses with drink.”
Though husbands had the legal right to treat their wives thusly, he could not condone such vicious behavior. He would never dream of striking or forcing himself upon Maggie—outside their erotic roleplaying, of course.
When Mrs. Crosse looked up at him with tears in her eyes, he fought the urge to take her in his arms. “Though heartily sorry for what you were forced to endure, I fail to see what your marital trials have to do with our interactions of five years past.”
“As you may recall, I wanted a night of passion to dream upon in my cold marriage bed.” Her lip trembled as she spoke. “But this small favor you denied me. And, in doing so, you deprived me of the succor my poor soul so desperately craved to mitigate my husband’s cruelty.”
Robert, feeling as if he was being lured into a black-widow’s web, freed his arm from her grasp and stepped backward toward the door. “Surely, a woman of your charms had other opportunities.”
“’Twould be false to deny your supposition—but as you once said yourself, passion stems from love.” Tears shimmered in her eyes as she added, “All these years, I prayed for another chance to say what is in my heart. And now that you’ve come, I must tell you what you have meant to me—what you mean to me still. I have loved you all this time and shall never stop. If not for you, I would never have known what it is to love. And only with you can I know the joy that comes from giving my body to the one who holds my heart. Would you deny me this? You who I nursed and returned to your wife. You who would have me now save the son and heir born of that union. Do I not deserve this small recompense in exchange for these great favors?”
Robert, all astonishment, blinked at her. “Gemma, I…I know not what to say.”
“Say you will give me what I hunger for,” she pleaded through her tears. “Say you will give me the night of passion you denied me five years past.”
If not for wee Jamie, Robert would have fled the shop that instant. “You would barter my son’s life for your own lurid purposes?”
Her gaze hardened. “Mistake not shrewdness, which is essential to a woman in business, for selfishness.”
Did that shrewdness include killing her brute of a husband? Something told Robert it did. Not that he was in any position to judge her. He’d killed his own brother for no less, after all, and God had seen fit to curse him for his crime.
Now, it seemed the Almighty was testing him again, by forcing him to choose betwixt his wife and son. Aye, there was a chance Jamie would never get the smallpox—or, if he should, would make a full recovery. The odds were narrow, but not nonexistent. Or, he could try to track down another apothecary willing to perform the engrafting. Not that he was likely to find any such person in time. His was not an isolated case, and the contagion spread from person to person the way the great fire had spread from rooftop to rooftop.
His thoughts kept circling back to Maggie. Were she here now, which choice would she advise him to make? Infidelity seemed the lesser of evils to Robert, but would Maggie agree?
Had he been younger and more chauvinistic, he might have made the choice on his own and hoped for the best. How easy it would be to step into Gemma’s private rooms, lift her petticoats, and give her what she wanted. Though he’d feel ashamed afterward, he could more easily bear the yoke of guilt than the gibbet of grief.
Still, he would not
have to endure either burden if he let Maggie make the decision. “May I have a day to consider your proposition? I should like to consult my wife on the matter.”
The chemist’s face went white. “You mean to discuss with your duchess what I have proposed?”
“Aye,” said he, ready to drive home the fatal blade of truth. “For, far from viewing my wife as my property, I have come to regard her as my partner in life—and the person upon whom all my happiness depends.”
* * * *
From the corner of the window, Maggie watched with growing vexation as the apothecary put her hands all over Robert. Yes, she’d followed him—out of concern for his health, not distrust of his motives.
Though she’d believed him when he’d said he’d been faithful, she now had her doubts. The reasons he’d refused to let her accompany him to meet Mrs. Crosse now seemed obvious. He’d conveniently failed to mention how handsome the widow was. Yes, he’d called her “attractive,” but that tepid descriptor did no justice to the breathtaking beauty mauling his person at present.
Had he downplayed her charms out of compassion or fraud? Either way, the omission was tantamount to a lie in her books. Now, she found herself wondering what else he’d been false about. Such as the assertion he’d not taken a mistress.
Lord Mulgrave had implied infidelities Robert flatly denied. Which of them spoke the truth? Given the scene before her, she’d put her money on Mulgrave. Heaven help her. How was she supposed to take her husband at his word ever again?
From the black smoke of despair clouding her mind, the voice of reason rang out. ’Twas possible she was being unfair, that her jealousy had gotten the better of her, and that she’d been too quick to see deception where none existed. Though the lady had touched Robert with galling familiarity, he’d not touched her in kind. He’d simply shaken the hand she’d offered when first he’d entered the shop.
A gesture she could only categorize as cordial.
Maggie balled her fists in frustration beneath the long velvet cloak whose deep hood hid her face from the world. Would that she were a fly on the wall inside that shop at this moment. What were they saying to each other? Had he asked her about the engrafting? Had she agreed to perform the procedure? What compensation had she requested in return? Judging by the intimacy of her caresses, Maggie could guess.
Did you go to bed with her?
No, but we spoke of doing so.
Were they speaking of doing so again at this very moment?
A ringing bell snapped Maggie out of her meditations. Panic erupted in her breast when she saw Robert heading straight toward her. Rather than turn away or try to hide her face, she lowered her hood and stepped boldly into his path. He must have been deep in thought about whatever had transpired inside because he crashed right into her.
“A thousand pardons, madam,” he said with a bow. “I was preoccupied and did not see—Maggie! What the devil are you doing here?”
“Keeping an eye on you,” she said, quickly adding, “in case you needed someone to call for a chair.”
His eyes narrowed in approbation. “You followed me?”
“I did. And watched the whole of your meeting with—why did you not tell me she was the comeliest creature in existence?”
“Because, to my eye, she pales in comparison to you.” His stern expression softened some. “And because her looks have improved since the last time we met.”
She frowned at him, unwilling to be so easily placated. “She seemed very familiar in her addresses.”
“That I cannot explain without revealing the whole of what passed betwixt us.”
“Then tell me, for I shan’t be satisfied until I know every detail.”
“I have every intention of making a full disclosure—but not here.”
She looked up and down the street, finding no one within hearing distance. “Why not? I daresay we shall enjoy more privacy here than back in our apartments with the servants eavesdropping.”
He took her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. “She wants me to make love to her—in recompense for engrafting our son.”
Though she’d suspected as much, his words still inflicted a mild shock. “Did you agree to her terms?”
“Nay, I told her I needed to speak with you before I could give her my answer.”
This did surprise Maggie. And also made her ashamed of her distrust. Were she not so blinded by jealousy, she might have felt compassion for the widow. Being a convent-raised foundling and ward, Maggie had been exceedingly fortunate to have caught herself a handsome duke for a husband. A duke who’d loved her from afar until he was ready to claim her hand. How might she have felt if she’d been married off instead to some decrepit shopkeeper? What agonies might she have suffered whilst he rutted atop her in bed?
Could she not, therefore, show some charity toward Mrs. Crosse by sharing her largess? ’Twas only a loan, after all. Robert would still be hers, heart and soul. And their only son would be protected from the smallpox in the bargain.
Yes, the idea rankled. Rankled to the depths of her being. But she still might be willing to consider the trade, if she had no other option. Provided, of course, the lady pledged never to come near Robert again...
A new thought turned her mind down another road—a road that might lead to satisfaction for all concerned. Plucking up her courage, she said to her husband, “What if we offered to bed her together?”
Robert coughed and stepped back, releasing his hold on her. “Are you seriously proposing a ménage a trois?”
“I am indeed,” she said, now excited by the idea. “Do you not see? If we had a threesome, she’d get her night of passion, you’d be advancing my erotic education instead of cheating on me, and wee Jamie would get the procedure that could save his life.”
Robert compressed his lips and shook his head as if he could not believe his ears. “You never cease to amaze me, dearest. A threesome might indeed satisfy all parties—provided Mrs. Crosse agrees. And providing you take no exception to my doing, in the midst of the assignation, what I must to mollify the lady. For I know how possessive you can be—and how punishing.”
Though the thought of him pleasuring Mrs. Crosse bothered her greatly, she could see no other way to save her son and keep her sanity. If she sent Robert to Mrs. Crosse on his own, she’d only go mad imagining what had transpired. This way, she would know for a surety, and be in a position to exert some control over the acts performed. “You have my permission to do what you feel you must—as long as you do to me all you do to her.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Even buggery?”
“All apart from buggery,” she clarified.
“Agreed. Now, let us put the proposal before Mrs. Crosse, for further discussion is pointless if she has no interest in bedding the both of us.”
Hooking his arm through his wife’s, he led her toward the shop’s door. She balked at the prospect of entering, suddenly too embarrassed to face Mrs. Crosse whilst he proposed such a scandalous alternative. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“Which part?” He opened the door, setting off the irksome bells.
“Having me there whilst you ask her,” she said, still reluctant.
“I do.” He pulled her inside the shop. “For I am convinced within myself that showing her what she will gain in the bargain can only aid our cause.”
Chapter Seven
“How I wish we’d brought the glass dildol with the ribbons along,” Maggie said with a sigh as she strolled on Robert’s arm back toward the palace. They’d just left Mrs. Crosse, who’d agreed to call upon them tomorrow evening to take part in the proposed assignation. “For I should have fancied using it on the apothecary, who, I can only hope will be satisfied enough by the artificial version to forego the pleasure of your real one.”
“That is a capital idea,” he said, amused by her optimism, “though I have my doubts any dildol, however fine or skillfully employed, would satisfy her completely. For she fancies herse
lf in love with me.”
“Goodness me. Had I known as much…oh, to the devil with her. If she must have you, let her. This one time. For when the deed is done, you will still be mine to have and to hold whilst she will go back to her lonely life.”
“How very benevolent of you,” he said tartly.
“Mock me not, husband. For I flatter myself I am being charitable. As well as compassionate. For I have been far more fortunate in my choice of husband than most of my sex, and must not be miserly with my blessings.”
Stopping abruptly, he turned toward her, brow furrowed. “Hearing you speak so, I know not whether to be flattered or insulted. Not that I would object to the occasional group encounter. But it sounds as if you plan to make me available to all the widows and spinsters within our circle of acquaintances—a prospect I find equal parts daunting and disconcerting.”
“I mean to do no such thing,” she assured him, clearly diverted by his pique. “Though I might be willing to buy them all godemichés to keep them satisfied. Speaking of which, did you not once mention a shop hereabouts where one could purchase such items? Perhaps if we hasten there now, we can acquire one for our use tomorrow night.”
“That is an excellent notion—provided you are game for a foray into London’s seedier side. For the shop I spoke of is near Covent Gardens, where the sex trade is plied in full force.”
“Would I be better off not asking how you know this?”
He shrugged, feeling more ill-at-ease than the dismissive gesture indicated. “I’ve made no secret of my past.”
“I was aware you’d had numerous lovers before we married.” She sought his evasive gaze as she added, “But not that some of your bedmates had been common prostitutes.”
