A Lascivious Lady

by Jillian Eaton

  “Yes, your present.” Standing, he reached in his pocket and procured a small brown leather box that fit easily in the palm of his hand. “Here,” he said, holding it out. “For you.”

  Hesitantly Josephine crossed the room. Her bare feet sank into the Persian rug, reminding her yet again of her nakedness.

  Flushing slightly, she peeked at Traverson beneath her long lashes. Most men would have been licking their lips at the sight of a practically nude woman, but not her husband. Oh, no, not him.

  He looked at her as he always did, his faint smile in place, his eyes wandering not over her body but rather trained firmly on her face. She might as well have been an eighty year old hag for all the interest he displayed in her, and not for the first time Josephine felt a twinge of hurt.

  While other men made up sonnets and poems to describe her beauty, Traverson had never so much as snuck a glance at her décolletage. Was she so unappealing to him? Did he prefer brunettes to blondes? Women with slim figures as opposed to voluptuous ones? Self consciously Josephine’s hand strayed to her hip.

  Once she had lamented over her curves, starving herself for weeks on end in a fruitless attempt to make herself slender as a willow. Now she had come to terms with the fact that God had intended her to possess a figure of the bustier variety, rather like an apple ripe for the plucking. Everyone else, male and female, held her renowned beauty in the highest regard… except for her husband, who had yet to pay compliment to a single hair on her head.

  Her lips pinching at the thought, Josephine reached out and plucked the box from Traverson’s hand. It was lighter than she expected it would be, and her fingers fumbled clumsily with the latch before she drew back the top.

  “It is an insect,” she said, her nose wrinkling. “Traverson, you have given me a bug.”

  “A cardinal beetle, to be precise. Quite difficult to find. I preserved him in wax and glued an attachment to the back so you can wear it as a pin.”

  Josephine closed the box with a sharp little click and did her best not to shudder. It really should come of no surprise that her husband’s first present to her would be one of the insects that he so loved to study. The man was positively fascinated with anything and everything that crawled in the dirt or lived under a rock.

  Setting her new “jewelry ” aside on a table, she skimmed a hand through her loose curls and smiled tightly. “How very kind of you, dear. Now if you do not mind, I must get dressed. Thank you ever so much for paying me a morning call, however I fear my day is filled with appointments and I must bid you adieu.”

  “You are doing it again,” Traverson said softly.

  “Doing what?”

  “Lying. You do it so well and so often that you can usually look straight into the eyes of the person you are lying to, but you cannot do it with me. You always look down at the last second, or to the side, like you did just now.”

  Josephine’s jaw dropped. “I – I am not – I am not lying,” she said scornfully. “I do have a very busy day!”

  “You just did it again.” Crossing his arms, Traverson regarded her steadily, his gray eyes cool and unflinching. “I wonder why you cannot lie to me without giving yourself away.”

  Something Josephine would very much like the answer to herself. Drawing back her shoulders, she stared straight at him and tried to repeat that she did indeed have a very busy day, thank you very much, but at the last moment her gaze veered to the side.

  Drats! “Oh, just go away Traverson! Even if I did not have a single scheduled outing for the next six months, I would still not have time for you .” Seething, she spun on her heel and fled back up the stairs, the edge of the sheet trailing in her wake.

  “You forgot your cardinal beetle!” Traverson called.

  She let the slamming of her bedroom door answer for her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Traverson watched his wife run from him in silence, a smile dawning on his face when he heard the slam of her bedroom door.

  Slowly but surely, he was wearing her down. It was taking longer than he thought it would – three and a half years longer, to be precise

  – but he was getting there. Two months ago she would have flung her gift in his face. The fact that she hadn’t had him whistling under his breath as he picked up the small jewelry box that housed the cardinal beetle and tucked it back in his pocket.

  The whistling stopped abruptly as his gaze fell upon the pistol that was still sitting on one of the parlor’s side tables. He had not intended to shoot Lord Penny, but when he had seen the pompous young buck descending the stairs a rage the likes of which he had rarely felt in all of his thirty three years had descended upon him and he had acted without thinking.

  Traverson knew Josephine invited other men to her bed on a regular basis – hell, there was not a person alive today who did not

  – but to actually see evidence of his wife’s not so secret liaisons had been the push to action that he needed.

  For too long he had sat back and allowed Josephine to sow her wild oats, as the saying went. He knew full well how his fellow peers viewed him, what they whispered behind his back, and if he cared a bloody whit for what the Ton thought he no doubt would have been driven to distraction by the endless circling rumors. As it was, Traverson did not care what the Ton thought, nor did he hold any of his peer’s opinions in esteemed regard. He was an outcast, a fact he not only accepted, but relished.

  At twenty years of age he had had his entire life planned out before him: attend the University of Oxford, apprentice beneath the great mind of Sir Charles Upton upon graduating with full marks, and commit his life to studying insects within the great walls of the London’s premiere scientific establishment, the House of Common Sciences.

  All of that had changed in the blink of an eye when he caught a glimpse of a girl with hair like freshly harvested wheat and striking eyes the color of a dragonfly’s wing during the mating season. He had not known who she was then, of course (no one had), but he knew he was in love, and that one day she would be his.

  Traverson could admit now that he had not handled the situation as well as he could have. Perhaps things would have gone over much more smoothly if he had thought to court Josephine before asking her father for her hand in marriage. As it was, he had spoken barely three words to her before their wedding day, too shy to do much more than introduce himself.

  She had been a fiery tempered young woman of twenty, furious at being pushed into an arranged marriage. He had been a tongue tied besotted fool, ignorant in the ways of women and desperately in love. He still remembered the words she had spat at him as they stood before the altar as if she had spoken them yesterday.

  “I hate you for doing this to me,” she had cried, her slender shoulders shaking with anger and despair. “I was supposed to marry William. We were going to be happy together. So happy…”

  Unfortunately, it seemed that in his haste to marry Josephine he had neglected to discover her heart had already been taken by another, the young and carefree Marquess of Winchester, heir apparent to one of the greatest dukedoms in all of England.

  Instead of marrying her love she had been forced to marry him, a mere Earl, and a rather poor one at that all things compared.

  Traverson had often wondered why her father agreed to the match, especially if a future Duke had been in the mix, only to find out shortly after their wedding that the Marquess of Winchester had never intended to make Josephine his (at least not by legal means), a fact her father knew all too well.

  She had sworn on the night of their wedding that she would never love him, that she would do her damndest to make him pay for everything he had taken away from her, and she had lived up to that promise in spades.

  Traverson had never imagined that she would take her revenge so far, nor carry it for so long. Every month that passed of their marriage she had withdrawn from him further, until she was shell of her former vibrant, spirited self. Like a rare butterfly put under glass she had tucked in he
r wings and grown dormant, refusing to acknowledge him at every turn. Eventually he had given up trying, until he had seen her again at the second wedding of Margaret and Henry, the Duke and Duchess of Heathridge, and all of his old feelings, long suppressed, had come back in a rush.

  He knew that to carry a torch for a woman who had spurned him at every opportunity was pure lunacy. But the heart wanted what the heart wanted, and try as he might Traverson had never felt the same swell of emotions gazing upon another woman as he did when Josephine was within his sights.

  She was stubborn to a fault, dramatic, high strung, and unapologetically cruel when she wanted to be – yet she as his, and he was hers, in name if not body and soul.

  Cupping the back of his neck, Traverson rocked on his heels and closed his eyes. Yes, the time for action had come. If only he knew what that action would be.

  Upstairs, Josephine’s thoughts were running in a similar vein. She had never asked to be married, a fact she had made certain her husband was quite aware of before their nuptials, not that it mattered a whit to him. Traverson had stolen her away from the love of her life, and expected her to be happy about! Was it no wonder she had acted so recklessly and found herself in William’s bed three nights after her marriage vows? Yes, she blamed it on the wine… and William for taking advantage of her at her weakest moment, but she could blame only herself for the time after that… and the time after that… and the time after that.

  I should have married William instead of Traverson, she thought fiercely. I should have been a Duchess, presiding over a grand estate. I would have been so very happy.

  She sighed. There was no use recanting the past, nor playing the game of ‘should have been’. Her life was what it was. She and Traverson were married in name only, which suited them both. She had her affairs to distract her; he his insects. Their paths rarely, if ever, crossed. It was a suitable arrangement for two people who had absolutely nothing in common except their last names. A sensible one. One that had worked splendidly up until she had seen Traverson at her friend’s wedding and all of her old, confused feelings, long suppressed, had come rushing back…

  Drawn back to the present when she heard her maid gently clear her throat, Josephine hurriedly finished her recollection of the events that has just transpired downstairs.

  “And then he gave me an insect as a gift.” Pushing herself up from the bathtub that she had been soaking in for the past half hour, she automatically held up her arms and waited until Amelia had wrapped her in a silk robe before she flounced across the room to pick out an outfit.

  “An insect? ’E did not!” Amelia’s eyebrows, as bright red as her hair, shot up. “Well, he does like those sorts of creepy crawly things. Mayhap in his mind he was givin’ ye a diamond.” She grinned mischievously. “Or a sapphire. Ain’t them jay beetles blue?”

  “Red. And it was a cardinal beetle, not a jay. Honestly Melly, do you ever listen to a word I say?”

  The maid shrugged. “I knew it was some sort ah bird. No need tae get cross with me just ‘cause yer cross with the Master.”

  Holding a yellow gown with intricate lace detailing at the cuffs and neckline up to her chest, Josephine faced the full length mirror in the corner of the room. “Traverson is not the ‘Master’, and I am not cross with him. I feel nothing for him. Does this wash out my hair?”

  “A bit,” Amelia said. Perching on the edge of the neatly made bed, she leaned forward onto her knees and cast an appraising glance at Josephine’s bulging armoire. “Try the plum with the black trim. It brings out yer eyes and ye know how the Master feels aboot yer eyes.”

  Tossing the yellow gown aside, Josephine glowered at her maid’s reflection in the mirror. “Melly,” she began, her voice falsely sweet, “do call him that one more time. I positively dare you.”

  Nonplussed by her mistress’s threats – Amelia had learned long ago that Josephine loved to give them, but rarely acted upon them – she turned her hand inward and studied her nails, her brow furrowing as she noted they were all chipped short and red from the burning lye soap the wash required. Some day, she thought determinedly, I shall have hands as fine as a lady’s and too many gowns to count.

  “Well?” Josephine said expectantly, and Amelia shifted from side to side as she realized she had stopped listening yet again. To be honest it was not a particularly hard thing to do. Whether she admitted it or not, there was only one thing Josephine could complain about for hours on end and that was, of course, the husband she proclaimed to despise with every breath she drew.

  Amelia was of the not so silent opinion that that meant Josephine was in love with the handsome Earl, for the few people she truly despised – her father and eldest brother being among them – she never spoke a word about.

  “Well what?” Amelia said, glancing up.

  “Well what did Traverson say about my eyes? Did he compare them to a dung beetle, or the underbelly of a worm?” Turning sideways in the mirror to admire the plum dress from a different angle, Josephine continued, “Do go on Melly. Tell me what he said! I am in need a good laugh.”

  Amelia barely managed not to roll her eyes. “’E said nothin’, mum, but ‘tis clear as day. Why do ye think he looks at nothin’

  more than yer face? Yer eyes en-en-en trance him,” she said, taking care with the pronunciation of the new word she had learned yesterday eve during her self imposed studies.

  “I do not entrance him,” Josephine scoffed. “He thinks I am ugly.”

  Amelia saw the tell tale flash of hurt that crossed Josephine’s face before she expertly disguised it behind her usual mask of coy indifference and shook her head in disgust. Never a more foolish pair had she ever come across than the Master and the Missus. If their love for each other was any more obvious they would be tripping over it. Was there any truer sign of affection than bringing out the worst in your partner?

  Mayhap, Amelia thought, her lips pursing, they simply needed a nudge in the right direction. And who better to do the nudging than the one who would benefit the most from their happy union? Dealing with Josephine’s mood swings was becoming a full time job, and Amelia had much better things to do than calm her mistress’s ruffled feathers when the Master made an unexpected appearance.

  For one, she had to get about the business of finding a man for herself. She already had her sights set on the son of the local baker, but the scoundrel was proving to be quite elusive…

  “Have ye replied to Lady Catherine’s invitation yet, mum?”

  Josephine let the purple gown drop and kicked it carelessly aside. “No,” she said, her voice muffled as she rummaged through the armoire for yet another dress. “You know how I abhor the country, Melly. The smells, the animals, the children running amuck.”

  Popping back out clutching a pale blue dress this time, she swung to face the mirror and studied her reflection with a critical eye. “I would rather curl up in a hole and die.”

  Amelia rolled her eyes again. “No need tae be so dramatic. It is only fer three weeks. Why, that’s barely more than a fortnight!

  Not long a’tall.”

  “It is nigh on a month,” Josephine corrected her, “and I would rather be roasted alive over a pit of boiling hot lava.”

  “Where do ye come up with these things?” Amelia grumbled.

  “I have a very active imagination.” Taking the dress, Josephine carefully laid it out length wise across the bed. “This one, I think,” she said, gently touching one sleeve. “With my hair done in ringlets. Do you think it will make me look younger, Melly?”

  The hopeful note in her voice was tangible, and Amelia sighed as she got to her feet to help Josephine into the dress. She knew her mistress considered five and twenty to be close to ancient, and worried over her complexion on a near daily basis. Every wrinkle, every spot, every line, whether imagined or not, was something to be bemoaned and cried over.

  “But who shall love me when my beauty fades, Melly?” she had asked a thousand times before. “I
t is all I have.”

  Slipping a soft white chemise over Josephine’s head, Amelia followed suit with a corset and began to lace up the back with deft tugs. “Ye are the last person to worry aboot gettin’ older and I think ye should go to visit yer friend in the country. Does she not have a new wee bairn?”

  “Two,” gasped Josephine as she sucked in her stomach. “Another set of twins. I have been hoping to avoid meeting them until they are old enough to—ouch, Melly! I can hardly breathe.”

  Amelia gave another ruthless tug, pulling the stays to the breaking point. “Ye want to look young, do ye not?”

  “Well yes, but I—”

  TUG!

  After the corset came the petticoat and finally the cornflower blue morning dress. Amelia fashioned Josephine’s hair in a simple chignon, forgoing the ringlets, which took forever to procure with a hot iron and never stayed put.

  It was a long, arduous process – one that would be repeated this evening if Josephine chose to go out for the morning dress was not suitable attire to wear in a public venue and if the dress changed, then so did the undergarments, the hair, and of course the jewelry, which Josephine had in spades courtesy of generous admirers.

  Huffing out a breath, Amelia pressed a hand to her flushed cheeks and crossed to the window to push it open even more. “Ye should at least pen a letter to yer friend to tell her ye canna come,” she said, refusing to let the matter drop.

  “Catherine knows how I feel about the country,” Josephine said as she picked through her jewelry box. Selecting a pair of simple pearl earrings, she held them up for Amelia’s inspection. “What do you think?”

  “I think ye should go visit yer friends,” Amelia said stoutly. “Ye have not seen them since Lady Margaret got herself remarried.

  What else do ye have to do?”

  “What else indeed?” Josephine murmured. “Oh, very well. I will go but—” she held up one finger “—you will be going with me, Melly. And we do not stay one hour past seven days. Agreed?”