“Thank you, my lady. You are very good to us. You too, my lord.” Aggie was grateful but he thought he detected a skepticism she kept hidden from her benefactress. He strongly suspected the piece of lace would find its way to a pawnbroker as soon as the infant grew out of it. And why not? He appreciated Aggie’s practicality as much as his wife’s frivolity and the sentiment behind it. Life was always better for a little pure beauty, and it was likely that the denizens of East London had little enough of it in theirs. Cynthia had brought great joy to her household of women and children this Christmas Day. Later he would discover how far her charity extended beyond the provision of the life’s unnecessary but delightful frills. Very far indeed, he suspected.
She should have children of her own. For the first time he felt an inkling of interest in procreation beyond the duty to produce an heir. This visit to these humble premises made him think of a family life with Cynthia. It occurred to him that since her fraudulent dealing had been in a good cause, there was no reason not to forgive her. Yes, certain matters needed to be settled. Julian Fortescue still cast his shadow. But they were back where they had been the night of the bhang.
A broad smile stretched his lips. He was suddenly very interested in procreation.
Young Tom stood beside him with an air of distaste while the others cooed over the lace-bedecked infant.
“It must be hard to be the only man in the house among all these girls,” Damian said quietly. “It’s a good thing they have you to keep an eye on the little ones.”
Tom puffed out his chest. “I’m the only boy except Puddin’ and ’e’s too small to be much help.”
“The ladies like to make a fuss about things, don’t they?”
Puzzled for a moment by the use of a term of gentility, he grasped that Damian meant the other inhabitants of the house. “Aye, m’lord. That they do.”
“See those greens over the fireplace? There’s one branch with white berries. That’s mistletoe, you know.”
Tom extracted the branch in question from a clump of fir. “Can I eat them?”
“I don’t recommend it. They’d taste bitter and give you a pain in the stomach. “
“What’s it for then?”
“At Yuletide anyone is permitted to kiss anyone else if they stand beneath a sprig of the stuff.”
“I can think of a few fellows that’d pay me for this. And some others who don’t need it to get what they want.” The boy’s canny look said that while he might not know much about traditions, his surroundings hadn’t left him ignorant of the basic facts of life. The infants in the house weren’t products of divine intervention.
“I was thinking the ladies here would like to exchange Christmas kisses.”
“Not me,” Tom said firmly.
“Of course not. But we must humor them. Why don’t you hop up on that chair and invite them? You can hold the mistletoe up high and avoid danger of having to participate.”
Laughing, Tom scrambled onto the seat. “It’s kissing time,” he piped, arousing a chorus of laughter.
The mothers all knew what to do. A squealing exchange of feminine bussing ensued, with Lady Windermere taking fervent part. The shy older girls won smiles and hugs from their patroness but Cynthia’s greatest enthusiasm was reserved for the babes in arms. He’d give her an infant of her own to cuddle and coo over. But before that blessed event another one (or dozen or hundred) must occur.
Soon.
Tom proved an admirable lieutenant, not even requiring the half-crown bribe Damian had planned. “What about you, guv? Ain’t you going to kiss ’Er Ladyship too?” The boy was going to get his money honestly. “The nippers expect it. They’ve never seen a lord before. Seein’ a lord and lady kissin’ would be a rare treat.”
“Never let it be said I failed in my duty. My lady?” He held out his hand. Blushing, she met his eye over the lace-capped head of Aggie’s baby. While he could admit that the infant was endearing, she was also very much de trop. “Give her to me,” he said firmly. The child seemed absurdly light in his arms and terrifyingly fragile. He handed her quickly to her mother, who winked at him. Good girl, that Aggie. “My lady?”
The assembly of women smirked. Grinning like a Cheshire cat, Tom brandished the mistletoe. With a martyrish air Cynthia took up position. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint the children.”
Damian smiled wolfishly. “Let us not do so then.” Her shoulders stiffened beneath his hands. “Relax,” he whispered, stroking her tender collarbones with his thumbs. “We’ve done this before. Forget that we have an audience.” The perfect mouth formed a mesmerizing O of surprise.
“I thought the only reason we are doing this is to please our audience.” The warm scent of roses flooded his senses. He wished they were somewhere else and alone together. His head buzzed with desire and he couldn’t for the life of him remember why they hadn’t spent the last twenty-four hours in bed, making love. All suspicions, accusations, and quarrels seemed unimportant in the face of his need to possess his wife. She was his and he intended to keep her. Her eyes reflected vulnerability and fear but his throat was tight with longing. He couldn’t form the words to reassure her.
“It will please me too,” he said on a breath. The feeble phrase gave no sense of the brew of resentment, forgiveness, and tenderness he wished to convey. Those emotions were for examination at a calmer time when he wasn’t overwhelmed by bone-deep, searing lust. But for now . . .
His fingers skimmed over her gauze sleeves, too fine to disguise the warmth of her skin. Taking one tight fist in both hands he carefully unfurled her fingers. Soft, pretty hands with pearly pink nails. His thumbs traced the lines crossing her palms, another detail about his wife that he intended to explore at length and at leisure. He dropped a lingering kiss into the very center. At her sharp intake of breath he raised his eyes to hers, still wary but softer. Damn their audience.
Keeping the hand in one of his, his other descended to her waist, following the curves beneath their layers of silk, to the sweetest rounded bottom in the history of the world. Lowering his eyelids for a moment, he recalled her naked. Pray God, soon.
“Kiss ’er, guv!”
The sooner he did his duty, the sooner they could leave. It wasn’t as though he didn’t wish to, hadn’t been planning it for the past half hour. He let her go, but only to frame her heart-shaped face between his palms, closed his eyes, and brought their mouths together. Her sweet, pliant lips invited him to invade with all his pent-up desire. But they weren’t alone and there were children present, so he kept it shallow, little more than an exchange of breath. Though it drove him to the brink of losing control, he didn’t want their tenuous contact to end. He held her head still, until it dawned on him that she wasn’t trying to escape him but to kiss him back. A bold dart of her tongue along his inner lip sent blood roaring into his already lively cock. Abruptly he let her go and she swayed. Her eyes were big and dreamy.
“It’s time we took our leave, Cynthia,” he said.
By the time they had said their good-byes and entered the carriage, the dizziness that had possessed Cynthia’s brain when Damian kissed her under the mistletoe had abated. Her body still thrummed and her legs felt weak but her head had cleared enough to remind her that she needed to speak with him before anything else happened. Confident now that he would understand her financial ruse, and certain that he intended to take her home to bed, she determined to press for a more perfect reconciliation.
Damian appeared to wish to omit the explanations. As soon as the carriage lurched forward he pulled her into his arms. “Cynthia,” he whispered, “I want you so much.” That his voice was ragged, his words blunt and unadorned, pleased her. She loved to see her husband’s sleek veneer crack.
His hand slipping through the front of her cloak to seek her breast, his lips hot against her neck, tempted her to yield without delay. Her pulses sped and heat bloomed in her lower belly. She managed to wrench herself away and put a foot of plush seat between
them.
“Not now, not here,” she said in response to his incoherent protest.
“Why not?”
“There are footmen.”
“Riding on the box.”
“We are in the streets of London.”
“I need to introduce you to new ways of passing the time on a journey. It’s dark and there’s nothing else to do.”
His caressing voice conjured up the possibilities of their situation. The carriage was still warm from the hot bricks provided by their efficient servants. If she extinguished the small lantern they’d be enclosed in a cozy refuge from the chilled world outside, just the pair of them, like a couple of nesting creatures. In the swaying light she could see Damian’s face filled with raw desire that matched his lusty pleas.
“Another time,” she said with genuine regret. “When we have settled other matters between us.”
“Right now the only matter between us is my wish to kiss you.”
“Stop, Damian. You refused to listen to my explanation so I showed you instead what I did with the money I made through Hamble. Every penny has gone to buying that house and maintaining it. Mrs. Finsbury looks after all the children while the other women go to work at the factory.”
He sighed, evidently resigned to conversation. “I have nothing against charitable endeavors. But why this one in particular?”
“Mrs. Finsbury’s husband was killed in an accident at the Finch Street factory. It belongs to my uncle.” She fingered the silk covering her knee. “This material was woven there. But more importantly, every penny that you gained through marrying me comes from the profits of Finch Street and other places like it.”
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of in successful commerce.”
“Of course not.”
“I am sorry about Finsbury’s death. What of the others? Are they also the widows of weavers?”
“None of them are married.”
“I see.”
“I don’t think you do. They didn’t intend to bear children out of wedlock. Each one is a victim of Wilfred Maxwell, my uncle’s partner and the manager of his London factories. He makes a habit of violating the young females in his employ and there is nothing they can do without losing their jobs and livelihood. Maxwell allows the girls to keep their positions as long as they don’t make a fuss, or miss too many days of work when they give birth. So far I have given a home to five. The most recent addition only arrived last week.”
“What does your uncle say to this?”
“I wrote to him but he doesn’t care. He told me to leave Maxwell alone.”
“Such irresponsibility is appalling.”
“Maxwell is a villain and my uncle not much better,” she said. “I feel a duty to Maxwell’s victims, but I would wish to help them in any case. There are too many young women in the world at the mercy of unscrupulous men, and so little I can do.”
“I applaud your efforts,” he said warmly. “I understand your sense of responsibility to these particular women and admire you for taking action. I am curious, though. Why do the women not send the infants to the Foundling Hospital? They can have little affection for the products of their rape.”
“You are wrong. Women love their children, no matter who the father is.”
“I see,” he said after a pause. “They seem like fine children.”
“If they are it is because they have loving mothers and a good home. I’ve learned much about the hardships the poor face. It’s made me realize how fortunate I was when my parents died. I cannot now have much respect for my uncle, but at least he didn’t leave me to starve or sell myself on the streets.” The blunt reference to prostitution shocked him, she could see, but she never felt particularly ladylike after a visit to Spitalfields. She also wanted Damian to share her feelings because he was in a position to do more about the problem than she. “I can’t bear to think about those little girls, and the babies like Hannah, living such a precarious existence.”
“Young Tom is a good lad,” Damian said. She had noted his interest in the boy. How gratifying it would be if he would share her endeavors.
“A wonderful boy. His mother relies on him to help and protect the younger children. But she worries too. There are some bad influences on the streets of Spitalfields.”
“He needs male company.”
“How like a man to think that,” she said teasingly.
“I have no objection to the company of women.” His voice dropped. “I envy Tom his mother and sisters.”
“I’m sorry.” She reached out and took his hand. “I wouldn’t imply otherwise.”
“But to do well in life, and perhaps provide for his family himself, he needs an education and the example of other men.”
“He would like to train as a weaver, like his father. I intend to provide the apprenticeship fee.”
“Good. He at least won’t be in danger from Maxwell and his ilk. It’s better if men go to work and women stick to the domestic realm.”
“No doubt that is so, except that women are sometimes left to fend for themselves. From what I have learned, one of the good things about the silk business is that it pays well, even for women.”
“I remember we spoke of this at dinner not long ago.”
“And we spoke of the efforts of many in Parliament to do away with the laws that ensure that the weavers earn high wages.” She squeezed his hand and took a deep breath. “I hope to persuade you to change your mind and support the Spitalfields Act.”
“I can’t do that. I gave my word to your uncle.”
“My uncle! After what you have seen and heard tonight do you believe you owe him your support in this?”
“A gentleman does not go against his word. And it’s not just Mr. Chorley. Others, men I respect, think the same way.” He slid along the seat and put an arm about her shoulders. “Let’s not speak of dull politics now.”
Cynthia wavered. Her inclination was to melt into his arms now and argue later. Like women throughout history, she could influence events through her powers of seduction. That’s what Lady Belinda Radcliffe would do.
She did not, under any circumstance, wish to be like Lady Belinda.
She slid back to her own corner and folded her arms. “At least hear me. Let me try to change your mind.”
“You may continue to support your own little household on Flowers Street with my blessing and admiration.”
“But what of the hundreds, perhaps thousands of others who will see their wages lowered? I can’t support them all. Besides, they don’t want charity but the ability to make their own living.”
“I know you mean well and I honor you for your impulses,” he said. “It’s a complicated issue, and not one that should be decided according to your sentimental response to the cases of certain individuals, deserving as they may be.”
“You believe me incapable of thinking rationally?”
“No,” he said impatiently, “but neither do I think you are the best judge of the wider consequences of the Spitalfields policy. Sir Richard Radcliffe supports repeal.”
She was about to decry the fact that he would listen to Sir Richard over his own wife, then stopped because of the absurdity. Of course he would. At no point in their acquaintance had Damian given her reason to believe he valued her opinion about anything. Certainly not more than that of his revered mentor, a man Cynthia would like to see tossed into the Thames. And his lovely wife too.
The optimism kindled by the spirit of Christmas at Flowers Street and their sweet mistletoe kiss had dissipated, to be replaced by a dull depression. For whatever reason, Damian had decided to overlook her supposed liaison with Julian, but he had no real respect for her and certainly no love. He wanted to bed her, that was all.
While once she would have settled for a small measure of affection, she had changed. “You believe me an adulteress who is too simple to be trusted with an opinion on a political matter. I cannot imagine why you would wish to consort with such a creature.”
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Her husband completely failed to grasp the opportunity to make amends she’d served him on a silver platter. All he had to do was deny that he believed her an unfaithful fool. Instead he reached for her hand. “Can we talk about this another time? We’re almost home and I am ready for bed.”
“I am afraid . . .” she said, haughty as Lady Ashfield, and why not? She was a countess too. “ . . . I must beg you to excuse me, my lord. I have a headache.”
Chapter 18
Dealing with his wife, Damian decided, was a bit like a game of Chowgan, where each time he took a good shot with his mallet, he found someone had moved the goal. They should send her to manage Prince Heinrich of Alt-Brandenburg. She’d have him in such a muddle he’d sign the treaty just to stop the ache—in his head and elsewhere.
During a brisk morning walk around Hanover Square, Damian tried to make sense of her attitude toward him, the way each time he thought they were becoming close she would find a reason to back away. While admitting his own role in their quarrels, he couldn’t get away from the nagging feeling that he didn’t have the whole picture. Something lay behind her anger, something that had happened in his absence. Returning home, he resolved to take the radical course of asking her a direct question and followed the sound of clinking china to the morning room. She was up early.
Or perhaps not. Oliver Bream sat at the breakfast table, teacup in one hand, applying charcoal to a leaf of a small sketchbook as he drank. Even from a sideways perspective and a few feet’s distance, the artist demonstrated a deftness that came only with hard work. Damian’s unpracticed fingers itched.
“Oh, good morning, Windermere,” Bream said vaguely, waving his cup. Without any perturbation at being found eating breakfast by the master of the house, he made an adjustment to his drawing, nodded with satisfaction, and put down his stick of charcoal. “More tea please, John. And a slice of that ham.”
“I’ll have the same,” Damian said. “And a couple of eggs and some buttered toast. Thank you—er—John.” The servant, hired during his absence, probably knew Bream better than he knew the man who paid his wages.
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