Miss Cameron's Fall from Grace

by Helen Dickson

  ‘If it’s the only way I have of tempting you into my bed, my love, I shall ensure you eat passion fruit every day of your life. You and I are engaged in a power struggle, Delphine. When I came home from Spain and you made it perfectly clear that you didn’t want me anywhere near you, I was prepared to honour your wish and keep away from your bed, allowing you to torment me for ever with the unspoken promise that eventually you would allow me access. Too clearly I remember the fire and the passion of our union before I left; I know that same fire still burns deep inside you. Do you not see how much power you have over me?’

  Slanting a speculative look at him, Delphine wondered if that was really true, or if he was being deliberately provoking. She licked her lips, feeling so out of her depth with him. ‘I do not feel that I have any power over you. Quite the reverse, in fact.’

  His fingers gently brushed a tendril of hair back from her cheek. ‘What do you think I am? Have you no idea how I am tormented, being close to you day after day and forbidden to touch you? You have been like a shadow beside me for weeks. I am a man with a man’s needs, and I cannot stop wanting you. Do you think I am made of stone?’

  Feeling herself weakening in the face of his confession, she averted her eyes. ‘Are you saying I was unfair and unreasonable in my request?’

  ‘Yes. Look at me, Delphine.’ His fingers turned her face to his. ‘If I hurt you, I am sorry—but you hurt me, too, and we both felt the pain of it. We can either continue to strike out at each other in our pain or we can stop now and learn to heal each other. Which course do you wish to take?’

  Gazing into his intent eyes, Delphine realised that he meant what he said. She stared, her face vulnerable and uncertain, her eyes dark with confusion. Finally she swallowed and said, ‘I have never wished to fight you, Stephen.’

  He looked at her a moment longer, then, taking her hand, he pressed the back of it to his lips. ‘Good. That settles it.’

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘it’s settled.’

  That was the moment when Lowenna pushed herself between them, giggling, for she thought it very funny that mummy was wearing a daisy in her hair. Delphine proceeded to make a daisy chain and placed it like a crown on her daughter’s head. Lowenna was so delighted that she hardly dared moved her head lest it fall off. But when her eyes lighted on the small boat they had brought with them, to her parents’ amusement she picked it up and forgot all about the daisies.

  ‘Papa, come and sail the ship with me,’ she demanded, tugging hard on his hand.

  ‘You go.’ Delphine laughed. ‘Keep her happy while I unpack the basket.’

  Stephen got to his feet, but did not leave her side immediately. Bending low, he placed his mouth against her ear. ‘While I amuse our daughter, my love, perhaps you could give some thought to what we discussed.’

  Mesmerised, Delphine stared into his fathomless blue eyes while his fingertip traced the curve of her flushed cheek and his deep voice caressed her, pulling her under his spell as he continued, ‘And although no aspect of our marriage has been ordinary, think how happy our daughter would be—we would all be—if we were to give her a brother or sister.’

  As if entranced, Delphine watched him take Lowenna towards the pond. She’d already thought long and hard about taking Stephen into her bed. Could they forget their differences and behave like a normal wedded couple? She was thoroughly tired of fighting him all the time, but could she put aside her vow not to succumb to his passion while another woman occupied the place in his heart where she so desperately wanted to be? And yet, by becoming his wife in the true sense, was it possible for her to banish the Spanish woman from his heart altogether? Perhaps it was time for her to abandon her fears and confront him with the truth.

  Chapter Nine

  After spreading out the delicious food the cook had packed into the basket, Delphine spent the better part of the next half-hour sitting on the blanket. Sun bathed her face as she watched Stephen and Lowenna kneeling beside the pond on which they sailed the small two-masted boat painted blue and white. It was attached to a line that Stephen was careful to keep hold of lest it got away from them. Lowenna watched as it bobbed and dipped in the swirling, shallow water. Delphine was utterly captivated by the scene. Their heads were so close together that it was impossible to distinguish where Lowenna’s gleaming black curls stopped and Stephen’s began. Something Stephen said caused the child to release a peal of happy laughter and Delphine’s eyes crinkled with a smile at the joyous sound.

  When Lowenna became tired of playing with the boat, she sat close to her father watching two swans pass majestically by. Delphine’s heart warmed as she listened to Stephen inventing stories about pirate ships and buried treasure. Wide-eyed, Lowenna listened, enraptured, clutching the little boat between her tiny hands.

  After eating the delicious food, they flew the multicoloured kite with streamers attached to its tail. Lowenna clapped her hands and danced about excitedly as it became caught on the wind.

  ‘Higher, Papa,’ she kept begging. ‘Make it go higher—right up in the sky.’

  Stephen reeled the kite out further. Delphine shielded her eyes to watch it soar into the blue sky as it tugged against its tether to be free. When the wind suddenly dropped, it plummeted to the ground, landing with a thud.

  Lowenna picked it up and threw it back into the sky, but it was not quite windy enough to get it properly airborne again. Laughing loudly at his daughter’s chagrin, in a sure attempt to quell her disappointment, Stephen scooped her up and lifted her on to his shoulders, telling her that if she was a good girl they would stop at Gunter’s tea shop for an ice cream on the way home. Gunter’s in Berkley Square was a popular rendezvous for the beau monde, who flocked there to eat ices and sorbets. The promise of ice cream won Lowenna over and she was in the cabriolet without further complaint.

  * * *

  The following morning found Delphine being whisked off to the shops by her attentive husband. The carriage rattled over the cobbles in the direction of Bond Street. When the carriage pulled up, Stephen told the driver to wait for them at the end of the road before jumping down and assisting Delphine to the pavement. After she took his arm, they joined other elegant shoppers strolling along the street. She couldn’t help casting a glance at Stephen. Tall and worldly, suave and elegant, she knew she would be the envy of every woman who passed.

  Bond Street was lined with fashionable shops: milliners, haberdashers, shoemakers and expensive jewellers, with their expanses of plate-glass windows and awnings. Taking note of the numerous signs of modistes and wondering which one Stephen would eventually choose, she raised a brow when he stopped outside one of them.

  ‘Why do you choose this one?’ she asked, sidestepping two dandies as they minced along the pavement, garbed in wasp-waisted coats and chin-high shirt points dripping with fobs.

  ‘I have heard that Madame Lasalles’s is the best. She’s been here for many years and is noted for superior style and true elegance.’

  Delphine fixed an openly enquiring gaze upon his, her expression a combination of amazement and more than a touch of amusement, for she had not for one minute thought her husband’s interest stretched to ladies’ fashions. ‘And may I ask how you came about this information, Stephen?’

  He grinned down at her. ‘Suffice to say my mother always favoured Madame Lasalles’s expertise—that’s how I know.’

  Delphine had never shown any interest in shopping—although she had often accompanied her mama and older sisters on their expeditions—but with her husband, so full of surprises, shepherding her into Madame Lasalles’s establishment, she felt a strange thrill of excitement.

  Liking the look of the elegantly dressed and handsome gentleman who entered her shop, with a charming smile Madame Lasalles welcomed him and his lovely wife into her expensive and fashionable establishment. Wh
en introductions had been made and she had astonished him by remembering his mother—who’d had an exquisite eye for style and colour—she got down to business.

  ‘My wife must be outfitted with a complete wardrobe. I’m sure a modiste of your experience knows all that will entail,’ he said, making himself comfortable in a large winged chair, prepared to let Madame Lasalles take complete charge of the proceedings.

  ‘Oui, of course, monsieur,’ she said, smiling with pleasure as her eyes slid over his wife, who was still in the youthful bloom of womanhood. There was something naïve in her manner, almost innocent, refreshingly unique, and yet she was a temptress. The gowns she was already planning would fit those slender yet voluptuous curves perfectly. She watched the young redhead stroll gracefully down the long room to take a closer look at the bolts of materials stacked on shelves, casting a glance at the sketch of a dress on an easel, seeming blissfully unaware of the covert glances she drew from other patrons—although when Madame glanced at the young lady’s handsome husband, his long-booted legs crossed and his arm draped over the back of the chair, sublimely at ease with himself and the world, it was difficult to know which of them drew the most admiring glances.

  ‘Your wife is very beautiful, Lord Fitzwaring.’

  Stephen’s eyes lifted slowly to his wife’s back. ‘I must agree with you, madame. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever known—but then,’ he said with a playful wink of his eye, ‘I am her husband and completely biased.’

  The couturiere went to Delphine. ‘Please—step this way, Lady Fitzwaring,’ she said briskly. ‘We will go into the fitting room where we will begin by taking some measurements before deciding on the style and a selection of materials for gowns and chemises of your choice—and your husband’s, of course.’

  ‘I am in your hands entirely, Madame Lasalles—whatever you think is best.’

  ‘I think you should come with us, Lord Fitzwaring. I have some lovely sketches of the latest styles.’

  Unable to utter any objections to having Stephen present, Delphine followed Madame Lasalles through some curtains and into a small room at the back of the shop cluttered with fabrics and sketches, motioning Stephen to a chair.

  She turned to Delphine. ‘When we have removed your gown I will take your measurements.’

  Delphine turned her back so the couturiere could unfasten her dress. The room was so small there was hardly room for the three of them. When she stood in her shift, as Madame took her exact measurements, turning her this way and that, lifting her arms and making her breathe in and out, every time she turned she couldn’t avoid touching Stephen.

  She felt stifled by him, his thigh a hard rock against her leg, his eyes holding her captive. She felt like a fly in a web, yet to all outward appearances she looked unconcerned—until she caught sight of herself in the mirror. In mute horror, she gaped down at her display, for her bosom was only thinly concealed beneath the delicate batiste of her chemise. Her round breasts pressed wantonly against the filmy fabric, their soft, pink crests seeming eager to burst through.

  She was so embarrassed she hardly dared to look at Stephen; when she caught and held his unrelenting gaze in the mirror, she could not look away from his face. Aware of his slow, unhurried regard, her skin burned from its intensity. Gritting her teeth, she glared at him before looking away.

  Sitting back on her heels where she was kneeling in front of Delphine, Madame Lasalles looked up and smiled. ‘You are perfect, Lady Fitzwaring. It does my heart good to make a wardrobe for someone with as fine a figure as yours. Your body is beautiful—full breasts, yet a waist slender enough to fit a man’s hands—and your legs—your hips—mon dieu!’ She turned to Stephen. ‘Do you not agree, Lord Fitzwaring?’

  Stephen’s eyes were devouring as they moved over his wife slowly, glowing with a strange light. The soft light gleaming on her satin skin was a rousing sight for him; his mouth was suddenly dry and his breath a hard knot in his throat. Like a starving man, he stared at the full, ripe delicacies before him, and it nearly sapped his strength to keep his hands off her.

  ‘Most assuredly, madame,’ he agreed softly.

  While Delphine closed her eyes, embarrassed beyond bearing as the couturiere spoke so freely of her body, Madame Lasalles lowered her head and smiled to herself. His lordship had a look on his face she had seen many times in her fitting room. Already he was impatient to leave, to get his young wife back to their bed, where he would use her well, she was sure.

  ‘You flatter me too much, madame. I have always thought myself nothing out of the ordinary,’ Delphine managed to say, thankful that her voice sounded normal and did not shake. ‘I have four older sisters who are infinitely more elegant.’

  ‘Then you must send them to me so that I can dress them all.’ Madame Lasalles laughed, getting to her feet and draping her tape measure round her neck. ‘I will go and fetch some sketches of different styles for you to look at. You can put on your gown.’ Her gaze swept to Lord Fitzwaring, her eyes twinkling gently. ‘I am sure your husband can manage perfectly well to fasten you up.’

  She left the room and Delphine was more than willing to don her gown, though when Stephen got slowly to his feet and proceeded to fasten the tiny buttons up the back she felt most distracted. His long fingers seemed like firebrands on her bare flesh. She cursed herself silently for allowing his appraisal to make her nervous. When he stepped back she breathed a sigh of relief. But her comfort came to an abrupt end when he stood behind her and dropped a gentle, burning kiss on her neck below her ear.

  ‘That was a rewarding experience, my love,’ he murmured easily, terribly confident of himself. ‘I admit I have never felt quite so moved upon witnessing a lady disrobe.’

  For a moment their eyes met in the mirror, his warm and devouring, hers nervous and uncertain. But under his openly admiring regard, her heart pounding fiercely with emotion, she flushed crimson and lowered her head to adjust her skirts.

  Her nervousness did not escape Stephen’s observant eye and he laughed softly as she bent low. He watched her breasts swell over the low neckline of her gown and tremble slightly as she shook out her skirts.

  ‘Why so nervous, Delphine?’ He grinned. ‘All I did was fasten your gown.’

  Her reaction was to stand up straight and pull her bodice up a little higher, which proved to be a futile effort.

  ‘Worry not, my love. You are quite decent—besides, there are no eyes here but mine.’

  ‘Please be quiet, Stephen. Madame Lasalles will hear.’

  As if on cue, the couturiere swept in with her sketches. Delphine bent her head over the drawings. They were excellent and, for the most part, definitely to her taste. Stephen offered his opinion, rejecting some and selecting those that appealed to both Madame Lasalles and Delphine, even going so far as to suggest the fabrics and the shades that would suit the design. Delphine was quite astounded by her husband’s talent. When they had finished, small squares of material were attached to each design—silks, satins, rich velvets and soft wool. One creation in particular he chose for her to wear to their first ball: a deep-red gown the same colour as her hair, a gown that was the epitome of stylish elegance, combining simplicity with the richness of expensive fabric.

  Their business concluded, Delphine was aghast by the colossal cost of this new wardrobe.

  Sensitive to her thoughts and aware of her dilemma, Stephen leaned in. ‘I told you before that no expense is to be spared, Delphine. Do not be hesitant about spending my money. The sketches you have chosen are excellent and I agree with them all. Madame Lasalles approves and I admire your taste, so if you are satisfied we shall see what the rest of Bond Street has to offer.’ He turned to the proprietress. ‘I would like two of the gowns to be ready in the next two days, Madame Lasalles—since we are to be in London for such a short time. And make the first of the gown
s out of the red.’

  Madame’s mouth dropped open in surprise. ‘But, Lord Fitzwaring—two days for two completed gowns is impossible! A week, at least.’

  ‘I am sorry, madame, but we are to attend the Chevingtons’ ball three days hence and my wife has not brought any gowns suitable for such a grand event.’

  ‘But it will take my experienced seamstresses a minimum of two weeks.’

  ‘Then hire more.’ He took the sting out of his words by flashing her a rakish smile and writing a bank draft for an amount that made her eyes widen.

  ‘That is indeed generous,’ she said in a dazed voice.

  ‘It should cover the costs,’ he said, knowing it would pay for the entire wardrobe and half as much again. ‘If there are any more bills, forward them to me. Naturally there will be extra profit for you if they are ready and well sewn. Can you do this?’

  Madame Lasalles thought for a moment. Lord Fitzwaring’s mother had been one of her best and wealthiest clients and she couldn’t let such an order go. The Chevingtons’ ball was to be a truly grand event, and the opportunity to show off one of her creations worn by the beautiful Lady Fitzwaring was not to be missed—even if her seamstresses had to sew round the clock to complete the order. Not only was Lord Fitzwaring appreciative of style and exquisite cloth, he also struck a hard bargain, yet it was clear he was used to giving orders and having them obeyed. He was to be admired, for he would accept nothing but the finest work.

  ‘Oui, monsieur. I will do my very best.’

  ‘Thank you, Madame Lasalles.’

  * * *

  When they at last reached the carriage waiting patiently at the end of the street, having forayed up and down the thoroughfare, halting now and then to purchase a miscellany of smaller items—some to be delivered and others Delphine insisted on taking with her—they headed for home.