‘Why? Did you pretend to have drunk the Reviver?’
‘I beg your pardon! Not—not my false pretences, yours! You misled me about the nature of your work!’
‘I did no such thing. You assumed the nature of my work, and gave me no time to correct the assertion.’
‘You had—you had plenty of time!’ Lord, why did her cheeks have to turn so red when she was exercised? ‘Abundant time!’
‘Time in which I was most happily occupied, as were you. After a crucial moment had been reached, as it were, I saw no reason for revealing the true nature of my work. I certainly didn’t think that we would ever see one another again, after all.’ Peterson shrugged. ‘And are you honestly saying that you would have rescinded your offer, had you discovered the lowly nature of my work? Not a tremendous expression of solidarity with the common man.’
‘You know very well that isn’t at all what I meant.’ Rebecca narrowed her eyes, noting with a thrill of rage the smile curling at the corners of Peterson’s mouth. The man actually had the temerity to be enjoying this! ‘I simply assumed, from your presence in the establishment and—and—’
‘And my appearance.’ Peterson moved closer, leaning idly against the wall. ‘You were commendably clear about that, as I recall. Dark, brooding, brutal…’
‘You are most unpleasant to have remembered.’
‘Oh, come now.’ Peterson’s smile widened, white and wolfish. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten.’
Of course she hadn’t forgotten. That was the worst part of this whole sorry business. Whenever she looked into John Peterson’s dark eyes, or heard his voice, the moment of abandonment on the Cappadene Club’s desk flooded her senses like a forest fire.
It was deeply inconvenient. It was certainly sinful. It was also, to Rebecca’s deep shame, more intoxicating than any drug. Even the strange potion she had swallowed that day had faded into significance compared to the physical reality of John Peterson, and the sensations he had conjured in her.
‘We are not meant to speak like this. Not in public.’ She straightened her back, trying to recover what was left of her dignity. ‘And you certainly should not have waited for me here.’
‘Are you honestly surprised that I waited for you?’ Peterson’s brow furrowed. ‘How on earth was I meant to ignore you, after what we—’
‘You were meant to ignore me completely! We—we are meant to be strangers to one another!’ Rebecca clenched her fists, dangerously close to stamping her foot. ‘Any true gentleman would know that!’
‘A pity, then, that I’m no gentleman.’ Peterson’s face darkened further as he moved closer still. ‘And if we are to speak of true ladies and gentleman, Miss Westbrook, true ladies certainly aren’t meant to wander into places like the Cappadene Club and demand that the nearest available male give them a good—’
‘Stop!’ Before Rebecca could stop herself, she reached out a hand to cover his mouth. Peterson’s eyes widened. ‘Please—please. Stop.’
Her gloves suddenly felt far too thin. What on earth had possessed her? If he said what she had done, it would become real… and her body still thrilled at the memory of his touch, his kiss, the mixture she had drank still singing through her extremities.
It was as if she were touching her own body. Another half of herself. Rebecca, biting her lip, kept her fingertips pressed to Peterson’s stubbled skin.
She would have to remove her hand at some point. She would have to come to her senses, and remember who she was. Rebecca, staring into Peterson’s dark eyes with a delicious feeling of helplessness, removed her hand with a sigh.
‘I’m sorry.’ She looked down, her cheeks hot. ‘Terribly sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’ Peterson’s voice grew lower as he leaned closer; Rebecca realised she didn’t want to move away. ‘Cover my mouth whenever you wish. I talk too much.’
It wasn’t true. If anything, it was the opposite—John Peterson didn’t speak enough. He left silences, just like this one, that Rebecca felt the urge to fill with something far more sinful than words.
Could it be the Reviver? That deeply floral potion she had drunk… did it keep working long beyond the first spike of desire? Because desire was what she felt now, beneath the awkwardness, beyond the shame…
‘Tell me to go, and I’ll go. I mean it.’ How could his gaze be so open, so all-encompassing? ‘I’ll leave now, without a word. But I need you to tell me.’
She couldn’t be dishonest. That would only compound all of the new sins that she had managed to commit in so very short a time. Rebecca, her hands beginning to tremble, bit her lip as she looked away.
‘I thought not.’ There was no triumph in Peterson’s voice, now—only a curiosity, a softness, that was almost worse than any coarser feelings. ‘Anyone would think you were frightened of a little pleasure.’
A little pleasure? A walk on a sunny day was a little pleasure—a currant bun was a little pleasure! Rebecca almost laughed at the idea of what she had felt at the Cappadene Club being categorised as a little pleasure, rather than the most powerful thing she had ever felt.
‘Maybe you’re frightened because it’s new to you.’ Peterson paused. ‘Maybe you should practice.’
‘If you are referring to—’
‘I’m not. I’m talking about a walk in the park, next to a gentleman who could make you laugh. Who could listen to your plans for remaking half of England, and marvel at them, and have a few points of his own to offer. Who could buy you a cup of tea and a cake.’ Peterson’s eyes showed even more cautious vulnerability than his voice. ‘Unless, of course, you—’
‘No.’
‘No, you don’t want to?’
‘No. Not that.’ Rebecca held a hand to her forehead, trying to control the swirling morass of her thoughts. How could she be so good at firmly telling unfortunate souls what was best of them, but so terrible at speaking to a man? ‘I can’t.’
‘Forgive me. I know the answer to this may seem obvious, but to me it is not.’ Peterson paused, his brow deeply furrowed. ‘Am—am I not the only man camapaigning for your affections? Am I in competition with someone?’
Competition! As far as Rebecca was aware, the only competition between the eligible men of London regarding herself was who wouldn’t be called upon to dance with her at any gathering. At the moment, all of them were winning; the spinster seats that surrounded ballrooms were well-known to her. She couldn’t resist a bitter smile, shaking her head as Peterson watched. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘Then you do not wish to spend time with me?’
‘I did not say that.’
‘Then what are you saying?’
‘That… that I do not know why you are asking me to do these things.’
‘Truly?’ Peterson’s expression was a living question-mark. ‘Do you wish me to be specific?’
‘No. I—I am not highly regarded as a companion in pleasure.’ Rebecca spoke as calmly as she could, even as her words dragged her darkest fears into the light. ‘I am highly regarded in more serious affairs, as you—as you have seen today. But when it comes to… to walking, and talking, and being light? I am not good at it. I am, to be frank, terribly bad at it.’
‘I didn’t say I wished you to be light. I said I wished you to feel pleasure. We can go and feed orphans soup, if you want. We can go and pull thorns from the paws of dogs.’ Peterson’s smile was softer. ‘You can be as serious in your pleasures as you like.’
‘But it will be new. I am not good at doing things the first time I do them.’
‘Had you done what we did on the desk before?’
The sudden, brazen turn of the conversation had Rebecca biting back a gasp. ‘No.’
‘And yet, you were perfect.’ Peterson paused. ‘Perhaps you’ll be perfect at other pleasures, too.’
The room suddenly seemed far too small. Rebecca looked into Peterson’s dark eyes, breathless, wondering why the air felt hot. As if a storm were coming.
‘Tomor
row. Vauxhall Gardens. It’s only a den of iniquity if you make it so. We can find someone to help, or someone to hinder, or… or simply walk, and talk.’ Five o’ clock.’ Peterson paused. Rebecca realised, with a strange touch of tenderness, that he had to be as nervous as she was. ‘Does that sound amenable to you?’
Yes. ‘I—I don’t know.’
‘Why don’t you know?’
‘Because—because… because I do know, and I’m frightened to say.’
‘Ah. You wish to say no.’
‘No. The opposite.’ Rebecca bit her lip. Talking to this man was like making her way into the heart of a maze. ‘I wish to say yes, but do not know how to do so while still appearing respectable.’
‘You don’t need to appear respectable in front of me.’
‘Then… yes.’ Rebecca nodded, first weakly, then with more vigour. She moved closer, her hands trembling with the need to hold Peterson—to fix him in place. To make him understand that she was doing something momentous. ‘Yes, please.’
‘Thank you.’ Peterson smiled properly—the expression was new on him, as if he were unused to doing it. ‘You honour me.’
‘You are not a man who needs more honour. You already carry a great amount of it.’
‘So many compliments.’ Peterson’s gaze travelled over her mouth, her body, making Rebecca feel as if she on fire. ‘You make me want to be dishonourable.’
Such conversation was dangerous. Everything about this was dangerous. Rebecca, knowing she would be overcome if she stayed another moment in the man’s company, moved away with a soft sigh of frustration.
‘Vauxhall Gardens. Five o’ clock.’ She looked cautiously at Peterson. ‘Where will you wait for me?’
‘Wherever you wish.’
‘By—by the pavilion.’ The first time she had ever set an appointment with a gentleman, and she was quivering enough for it to be visible. ‘Please.’
‘As you wish.’
‘I—I have to go, now.’
‘I know.’
‘Goodbye.’
Peterson bowed in response. Rebecca moved to the door, reaching out to open it, before turning back with her heart in her throat.
‘You—you said I was perfect.’
‘On the desk?’
Lord, why did she have to say it? She knew she was blushing. ‘Yes.’
‘Because you were.’
‘Thank you.’ Rebecca nodded primly, knowing that she was moving into treacherous waters. Things she could never explain to Mary Atterson, or her own higher self. ‘You were… you were more than satisfactory.’
Peterson blinked, his smile widening. ‘Such praise.’
‘Oh, don’t make fun.’ The man’s humour was infectious. ‘I do not know how to give compliments in reference to—to—’
‘I’m glad I could satisfy you.’
‘Thank you. Did… did I…’
Peterson’s voice softened. ‘Did you satisfy me?’
‘Yes.’ The more she spoke, the more she was sure that she was hell-bound. Still, the words kept coming. ‘I—I am aware of the basic mechanics, I believe, but it was never explained to me with the addition of pleasure. Of satisfaction. I do not know how one can tell if one’s partner is—’
She stopped, wordless, as Peterson took her hand.
‘If we keep speaking about this here and now, I’m going to be disreputable. As much as my past actions would argue the opposite, I’m not in the habit of letting my wants overcome my duties.’ His lips moved to her hand; Rebecca gasped as he kissed her just above her knuckles. Her gloves felt like gossamer, the heat of his mouth wicked against her skin. ‘All I can reasonably say, while keeping full control of my faculties, is that you are infinitely satisfying just as you are.’
Her body felt like it didn’t belong to her anymore. ‘Truly?’
‘Yes.’ Peterson let her hand go; Rebecca fought the urge to clutch at his fingers. ‘Goodbye.’
However hard she had tried to keep control of the conversation, she had ended up under his command. Rebecca wished she could be irritated—as irritated as she had been before. But as much as she attempted annoyance, it collapsed into the most ridiculous sort of rapture.
She left the room with dreaming, shuffling steps. It was only when she was out in the darkening street, a cold breeze on her flushed cheeks, that Rebecca felt as if she were back in the real world.
Vauxhall Gardens, at five o’ clock. An appointment with John Peterson—an appointment that should not be countenanced, let alone longed for. A chance to walk, and speak, with the man who had brought her to this distracted state.
She didn’t think she had ever wanted anything so much.
With a brief shake of her head, fear clouding her thoughts, Rebecca wondered if her courage could ever match the level of her want.
Clothes didn’t make the man, but they certainly made up a large portion. Peterson chose his garments with particular care the next day, delegating boot-blacking duties to an underling at the Knight’s Circle property in order to escape to his rooms ten streets away. Looking in the mirror at his own face with a suspicious glance, he found himself already ruing his unaccustomed bravery.
He was too old for games like this. Not old enough to make the appointment sordid, but too old to be this nervous. Nervousness was for boys still wet behind the ears, not men nearing forty—and it wasn’t as if he hadn’t already made quite an impression.
Perhaps it was the wrong impression. He’d presented himself as a cocky fly-by-night, talking of serious things while presenting himself as anything but. She was frightened enough as it was—it wouldn’t have done any good to start speaking of intentions, decisions, the future…
‘How desperate are you?’ He examined his reflection with a grunt of weary disappointment. ‘You barely even know the woman.’
His reflection, smugly silent, said everything with a glance. You’re not desperate. That’s the frightening thing. You simply know that Rebecca Westbrook is special—and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.
Instead of conducting an honest assessment of his character and motivations, Peterson decided to glower. He glowered through the rest of his preparations, glowered as he stepped out of his modest bedroom, glowered as he walked out into the street—and almost growled when a gentleman nearly ran into him.
For goodness’ sake. He glared at the stranger’s retreating back. Control yourself.
He managed to control himself for the entire journey to Vauxhall Gardens. He controlled himself with relative ease as he walked to the pavilion, standing by the elegant structure. He controlled himself as a passing flower-seller offered him a paper cone of tulips—yes, tulips would be an acceptable gift for Rebecca. He would buy only one bunch, ignoring the temptation to buy an armful.
He controlled himself as the first thirty minutes went by. It was only as thirty minutes became sixty, slowly approaching ninety, that his shoulders slumped.
No point being worried. No use being angry. It was coldly evident that he had polished his fragile hopes for something that wasn’t going to occur.
Had he really thought they would walk together through this park as if they had met in a normal way? Ridiculous.
The first thing to do was get rid of these stupid flowers. Peterson found an obliging patch of earth, putting the tulips down as an unassuming voice came from nearby.
‘Mr Peterson? My goodness! Mr. Peterson!’
Of all the people to meet at this particular moment. Reverend Calcourt, the priest at St. Peter’s Church. A church that Peterson didn’t visit often enough—a fact that Calcourt often reminded him of, if he was ever unlucky enough to catch the man in passing.
‘What are you doing here? I’ve never thought of you as a Vauxhall Gardens man.’
‘I’m not.’ Peterson spoke shortly, hoping he didn’t have any flower petals clinging to his fingers. Reverend Calcourt seemed like a kind man, but had been irritatingly perceptive in the past. ‘I’m passing through
. I have business in Mere Way.’
‘Oh, I see. Something for Sir Marcus.’ Calcourt smiled, his eyes still slightly puzzled. ‘Is everything all right? Is Helen well?’
‘Yes.’ Peterson glared. ‘But I am in a hurry.’
The vicar finally relented, his smile fading a little as he bowed. ‘Well. I won’t keep you.’
‘I thank you.’ Peterson tried to push away the guilt that rose in his chest. Wasn’t a man allowed to nurse his unhappiness in peace? ‘Be well, Reverend.’
‘I will.’ The vicar looked back as he turned, his brow slightly furrowed as he stared at Peterson. ‘Apply the same injunction to yourself.’
Typical man of God—never allowing anyone else to have the last word. Grimacing as he nodded, Peterson walked away from the gate to the Gardens as quickly as he could.
His street was always blessedly silent. The chill in the air ran down the back of his neck as he faced his house, wondering if he needed food. There was a chophouse nearby, but it was late… and he hadn’t thought he would be eating alone.
The chill was intense. As if someone had gripped the back of his neck with an icy hand, or—or as if someone were looking at him.
‘Wait.’
Biting his tongue, determined to hide the shock that leapt through him at the sound of her voice, Peterson turned to face Rebecca Westbrook.
Rebecca had tried to leave her house a dozen times, only to run back to the safety of her bedroom with a sinking heart. She had upbraided herself as a monster, a sinner, a wretch—all the while looking at the clock, hoping that she would find the bravery to go against everything that she had been taught. Everything that she had built, and become—based on a rejection of the very desire that moved through her like lightning, like the most beautiful and pernicious kind of pain.
Only when she thought of all hope of meeting him at Vauxhall Gardens was lost did she leave the house, sick at her own cowardice. She tried to pretend that she was going to do other things—run errands, meet friends, stare at the trees in Harmouth Square. Anything other than slowly circling the streets of the metropolis, each step growing heavier and heavier with guilt.
A Bluestocking's Vice: Dukes of the Demi-Monde: Book Four Page 4
