I eyed the tiny scrap of lace with disfavor. “It is simply not the type of thing I do,” I attempted to explain.
“No,” she agreed, turning the little slippers she had chosen this way and that as she examined them from every angle. “You are wrong. It is not the type of thing that you did. But before you have always been the good girl, and you are now trying to change that, no?”
I hesitated.
She sighed. “Look, Gwen,” she said in patient tones, putting the slipper down. “I do not apologize for coming to your Cambourne’s chamber to seduce him. At the time, I do not know that you want him, you see? And he is very … full of delights? Delightful! Yes, that is it.
Delicious and delightful, I think, and perfectly beautiful in a way his twin, he is not. He is so very English and proper on the surface of things, but beneath, I think are unexpected depths. If you want him, you have to be brave enough to take him for yourself.”
Thus far I had been reluctant to share what Bertie had told me about Cambourne being in love with me. I debated spilling it to Therèse now, but did not. First of all, I was not entirely certain I could believe it. I mean, consider the source! And, too, if felt private, somehow, like something I wanted to hug to myself a while longer.
And besides, should this seduction fail, it would only serve to make the entire thing more humiliating. I had been unable to seduce a man rumored to be in love with me.
“But—what if it doesn’t work?” I was almost bleating.
Therèse held up the indecent scrap that passed as a garment again. “Look at this,” she said.
I did.
“Look at you,” she said.
I did. And hardly recognized myself in the flushed, wanton-looking creature whose gaze met mine in the mirror.
After a moment, she continued. “If this does not work, then, well … then, I know nothing of the men.” Then she smiled, catlike, exuding confidence that she in fact knew everything about men. “And, also, I think you should remember that the garments—” she paused and shrugged—“well, they are not everything.”
I stared at her. “But I thought you said they were.”
“I lie,” she said, sounding perfectly comfortable with that fact. “Because I think you are not ready for the real truth.”
“Which is?” I was almost whispering.
“That you, you want him to give up something that is precious to him, his sense of his own honor. Now you must in return give to him something dear to you.”
“My pride,” I said, almost to myself. “But, Therèse—” I was seized momentarily by guilt “—if this succeeds, I am consigning you to a life with Milburn.”
She gave me a wry smile. “You think Ber-tee and I will not be suited, as you English like to say?”
“I am not entirely certain, at the moment, that Milburn and anyone would suit,” I admitted.
She shrugged. “As I have said it before. He want someone to give him a little kick, and I will be the one to do it.
Ber-tee, he will do fine, n’est-ce pas?”
“But what about love, Therèse?”
“Gwen—” she looked exasperated “—you want love. Me, I want to be gone from my village, from my father. Love will come where I tell it,” she said. “Now, stop wasting the time, and let us get you ready.” She held out the night rail.
It was immodest. It was appalling. It was completely transparent. I leaned closer to the mirror. Good heavens! My eyes looked positively feverish, my lips, thanks to just a touch of some special salve from Therèse, were almost as cherry-red as hers, and my hair fell in luxuriant shiny waves down my back. Not entirely convinced, I stuck out my tongue, and sure enough, the vision did also.
“See, it is you,” Therèse said, drily.
“Yes,” I said. “I suppose it must be. Therèse?” I turned toward her. “I—I need a moment … before I go. Alone.”
“You will—how do you say it?—lose your nerve, then, I think.”
“I won’t,” I said. “And you will be late for Myrtia if you do not go.” She glanced at the clock. I could see her hesitate. “Traffic will be a terrible crush,” I said, “and Crewes is bound to fuss you about whether you are properly attired for such inclement weather.”
She smiled. “Do not think I do not know what you are doing, Gwen. But I know also that in the end you will have to walk in there by your own self.” She paused by the door.
“Thank you, Therèse,” I said, quietly. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Oof, think nothing of it,” she said, airily. “And I agree that it is too kind of me, since I think I am encouraging my husband to commit the bigamy.”
I was laughing as she closed the door, but not for long.
I think the only thing that propelled me toward the door that connected my rooms with Cambourne’s, in the end, was the half-formed idea that anything was better than being alone with my thoughts.
I did pause, though, and cast a glance back over my chamber, where it fell on the cabbage wrapper draped across a chair. Suppose one of the servants was lurking about in the sitting room, tending to the fire or some such? Was it truly necessary to the success of this plan that they be made privy to the sight of me in a transparent night rail? I, for one, didn’t think so. I swooped back into the room and shrugged the wrapper on. It went on like a breath of relief. I would discard it when I reached Cambourne’s dressing room undetected, I assured myself as I set off through the connecting doors.
I took a deep breath to shore up my resolution, and lifted my hand to knock.
“Gwen?” he said, when I did.
I cracked the door open, and peered around it. “Hello!
Cambourne!” I said in extremely hearty tones.
Perhaps too hearty, because he lifted a brow, and said, “Would you like to come in?” He was sitting on his bed, reading a book.
I was blushing as I stepped through the door and pulled it closed behind me. “Don’t get up,” I said, waving at him to sit back down, as he made to get to his feet.
A few hours ago, when last I had seen him, at supper, he had been in high Milburn alt. At some point since, he had returned to being himself. He was wearing plain buff breeches and a white shirt, the simplicity of the outfit setting off the lithe perfection of his body. His hair fell across his forehead, and he pushed it back as he looked up at me. He looked tired, I decided. In fact, I realized with some guilt, he seemed to look increasingly more tired each day that he lived with me. And the fact was that the shadows under his eyes, the slight hollows in his cheekbones, only made him more attractive.
“And to what do I owe the honor of this visit?” he asked.
“Well …” Blast! I had forgot in my nervousness to remove the cabbage wrapper. Which omission, I told myself, was entirely responsible for the friendly, but distinctly unsmoldering-with-passion expression in his eyes. My hand went to my throat where the garment was very efficiently closed. Absolutely no chance of it accidentally sliding open to reveal my barely concealed charms. I doubted even gale force winds would serve to part the neck. Here I was, in his bedroom, trying to seduce him, looking like the spinster of the parish. “I just came to, ah, see you,” I managed.
“How nice,” he said politely, and followed with a nice long silence.
As usual, this had the effect of making me want to babble like an idiot. “I haven’t seen you in, well, quite a long while,” I said.
“Yes, supper seems positively eons ago,” he said, agreeably.
There was simply no possible scenario under which I could begin to imagine seducing this man at this point. In fact, were I to try at the moment, I was convinced he would likely have run screaming out of the room. Right. I took a breath.
And did not realize that I had spoken aloud, until he looked at me with a raised brow, and said, “Right?”
I looked at him. “Right what?”
“I don’t know,” he said, frowning. “You said, ‘Right.’ ”
“Oh,” I said. “I m
eant, Right! And you decided not to go out this evening?”
“Yes,” he said, his frown deepening. “As I believe I mentioned quite specifically at supper.”
“Your silences are more silent than most,” I blurted out.
“Gwen,” he said, sounding both weary and wary. “Would you like to sit instead of hovering inside the door?”
I nodded and he rose from the bed in a fluid motion and crossed to the armchairs by the fire. “I’ll come sit with you by the fire. Now, tell me about my silences.”
I sat opposite him. “They stretch. And you seem so comfortable in them that one—well, I, really—feel compelled to fill them. They make me babble like an idiot.”
“I am sorry,” he said. “They are certainly not intended that way. For what it is worth, I have never thought you an idiot.”
“Thank you.” I smiled at him. “It’s always nice to know that there’s someone who hasn’t.”
“And I am inordinately fond of babbling,” he added, staunchly. “Always have been.”
I directed a dark look in his direction.
“It’s interesting, though,” he said. “The idea of different people having different silences. I’d never thought of it. Tell me, what kind of silences does, say, your mother have?”
“Impatient,” I replied, promptly.
“Your father?” he asked.
“Relieved,” I told him, and he laughed.
“Cecy?”
“Provocative.”
“Myrtia?”
“Attentive. Thoughtful. This would be an excellent parlor game,” I said. “I can see whiling away a snowy afternoon at a house party with this.”
“Milburn?”
“Selfish,” I replied (a little snappishly, perhaps, as our recent encounter was still fresh in my mind).
Now he was really laughing, and he looked less tired. “Lady Worth?” he asked.
“No silences there,” I assured him. “She, you see, does not ever need to draw breath. Your turn.”
“Very well,” he agreed.
“Umm. Your mother.”
“Slow,” he said. “As if she is trying to figure out what was just said.”
Now I laughed. “Your father?”
“Well,” he said, with an odd look, “it depends on his, ah, mood.”
I wanted to ask about Mathilde, but I didn’t dare.
Likely he would have said something to cast me into the dismals, like irresistible, or bewitching or smoldering. “Me,” I said, instead.
“You.” He looked at me for a long moment. “I don’t know, Gwen. They’re just sort of … you. Unexpected, perhaps, in that I never exactly know how they are going to end.”
I moved in my chair, which had the miraculous effect of parting my wrapper. I saw his gaze drop to the scrap of lace that almost covered my breasts. “Do you like that?” I asked.
He looked startled for the merest instant.
“I meant, the fact that you don’t know how my silences are going to end,” I said, leaning toward him, so that the wrapper opened further.
“Very much,” he said, gently, as I took a deep breath and the scrap of lace threatened to shimmer down altogether.
His eyebrow went up, and he looked at me. I smiled, slowly, at him.
“I collect you are testing my fortitude again?” he asked, coolly. He leaned forward in his chair. “I am flattered.”
“You are?” Flattered was not precisely the reaction I’d been hoping for.
“Of course.” He smiled gently. The smile, I realized, of a man trying to let a lady down as politely as possible. What had happened to the Cambourne who had more or less threatened to tear my clothing off on the library floor? “What man would not be?” he finished.
I raised a brow at him. “A rather cool reaction, don’t you think?” I said. “Although one might suppose this type of thing happens to you frequently.”
“That females come tripping through the door into my bedchamber unannounced discussing silences and dressed for seduction?” He shook his head. “I can’t think of the last time.”
“I am glad you are finding this humorous,” I replied, the heat of anger seeping through my blood. I stood slowly. “But let us see how funny you think this is.” And then I untied my voluminous wrapper entirely and shrugged it off, letting it pool at my feet. I forced my chin high as I stood before him in that insubstantial bit of lace, and forced myself to meet his gaze.
He was smiling, but his hands, I noticed, were gripped tight on the arms of his chair. To a casual observer, he still would have appeared entirely relaxed in his chair.
“It’s such a shame, really,” I said. “That this will go to waste.”
“Yes.” He smiled, tightly. “But then, at least you may console yourself with the fact that not much fabric was wasted.”
“No,” I said, drawing my finger lightly but deliberately down my throat, to where the neck dipped. “Scarcely more than a few scraps, really, I suppose.” His eyes, I noticed, followed the path taken by my finger, and he swallowed. “It’s awfully flimsy,” I said. “Look, one can see right through it.” I slid my finger down toward my breast, molding the transparent fabric against my skin, as I felt the weight of my own breast in my hand. “It is quite shocking what a person can see.”
“Perhaps you should complain to the modiste,” he suggested. His tones were still measured, but his color, I noticed, was considerably higher.
I nodded. “It’s not all that well-made, either. I’m a bit concerned, in fact,” I said, taking a few steps closer, keeping my hand on my breast, since I had noticed that he did not seem at all inclined to remove his gaze, “that the entire thing might just fall off at the least provocation.” I shrugged off a shoulder strap, just to demonstrate my point, and the sheer fabric slipped low.
His eyes seemed riveted to the skin I had just exposed. I was beginning to feel a burst of something like power. He wanted to resist me, I knew, but he was beginning to find it difficult. “Were I to sneeze, for example,” I told him, “there is every possibility that the entire thing would be in tatters.” I shrugged, just a bit, and the other strap slid dangerously close to the slope of my shoulder.
“Well, in that case, perhaps you should put your robe back on,” he suggested drily. “We wouldn’t want you to take a chill.”
“I’m not worried about that.” I moved closer to him. It meant I was giving up the light of the fire behind me, shining through the transparent gown, but I was gaining proximity. His hands were still gripping the arms of his chair, and his eyes were hooded. “In fact, I’m practically burning,” I told him, fanning myself with my hand, which had a hazardous effect on the not-very-secure fastenings of my gown. “But then, perhaps you’d like to feel that for yourself, how warm I am.” I reached for his hand.
But he pulled it away. “I’m just a little warm myself,” he said.
I looked straight into his eyes. “But are you burning?” I asked.
“I think I can safely say, yes. I am,” he replied, coolly, looking straight back into mine.
“Then why not, Harry?” I asked, thinking that perhaps the best approach was an honest one. “Since we both want to.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “I want to, all right. More than I can tell you. But it would be wrong.”
“You sound like a man of the cloth,” I said. “Perhaps if Milburn takes to being the earl, you will find you have the calling and take orders. Do I understand that you are a man of too much honor to accept what I have so freely offered? Or,” I taunted, untying the ribbons at the front entirely, “is it that beneath it all the rakish Earl of Cambourne is nothing more than a prosy old bore? Next you’ll be digging up St. Dunstan’s!”
His lips tightened, as his eyes followed my hands. “For a blushing maiden you’re awfully sure of yourself,” he said.
“That,” I said, “is because I understand you, Cambourne, enough anyway to know that you want me.” I let the ribbons slip from my hands as the lacing fe
ll open. I deliberately allowed my gaze to sweep over him and I smiled. “Those are some pretty tight breeches.” I pulled my gaze up again, to his face. “And judging from what I see there, if you decline to take me, it will not be out of lack of desire.”
His jaw tightened. “Do I understand, then,” he said, furiously, “that if I try to conduct myself with some accounting of honor, I am to be accounted a martyr to myself?”
“Yes,” I said, heedless, “yes, damn it, Cambourne, you are a martyr to yourself and your honor.”
He stood and took a step nearer and raised a brow. “Strong language from a girl who always does what she is told.”
“Yes, well, marriage to you has changed that,” I said, almost enjoying the danger of the fact that I was making him angry.
“This hasn’t been marriage, Gwen,” he said, his tones suddenly low and dangerous.
“Then show me, Cambourne,” I said, unlacing the next set of ribbons, aware that I was barely covered. “What is marriage?”
His eyes narrowed. “I seem to recall obedience being mentioned.”
“Would that have been along with love, honor, and cherish?” I replied. “And something about worshiping me with your body?”
He laughed. “God, you have a sharp tongue, Gwen,” he said. “Am I to think that you invaded my bedchamber, dressed in virtually nothing, to demand an accounting of my sins?” And while he was saying that, he reached out and closed his hand around my wrist.
“No,” I said, after a moment, “but I think you refuse to recognize your greatest sin.”
He raised a brow, pulling me nearer. “Which is?”
I resisted his tug. “Your nobility.”
“That’s a sin?”
“Not in and of itself, perhaps, but it is if you delude yourself that your nobility is in the name of a greater good,” I said.
“Jesus,” he said.
“Cambourne,” I said, softly. “Do you recall that morning that we were out riding, and you told me that I made you look at aspects of yourself that you’d rather ignore?”
The Accidental Duchess Page 25
