JoAnn Wendt Page 2

  McNeil was confused at the blank, nervous look she gave him. Why was the whore nervous? Surely she could see he wasn’t a perverted customer. He smiled, amused at the thought. Then the smile died as amusement flickered into suspicion. A normal whore would be stripped to her chemise by now, eager to complete the transaction and move on to other customers. A normal whore would already be kissing him in feigned passion as her mind totaled the number of coins she might earn before light once more crept over the Thames River.

  He studied her with narrowing eyes.

  “What is your game? You and the old man?”

  She jumped.

  “Sir?”

  “Your game. You’re a shill, aren’t you. Your master has learned that I carry the profits from the Caroline’s cargo.”

  She shook her head with such fear that she confirmed his suspicion. He drew a harsh, painful breath. Of course the old fox would employ an innocent-appearing creature such as she. She was the perfect shill. Her sweetness could set any man off guard.

  His mouth tasted suddenly sour. He hardened himself against the rush of sentimental disappointment that came like a flood. He was thirty years old and by now life should have made him a cynic, he thought. Hadn’t experience taught him that the prettiest apple was the one most likely to be rotten to the core?

  “Order the brandy from the innkeeper,” he commanded, taking a step toward the trembling girl. “You’ve been instructed to get me drunk and steal my purse, have you not?”

  “Sir—please—I don’t understand—”

  Her playacting infuriated him.

  “Then understand this. My crew waits below. They are armed. One word from me and they’ll scour the waterfront for that thieving old fox. I’ll drag the both of you to the nearest magistrate.”

  Flavia choked on terror. She backed away from the furious eyes, the warily hunched shoulders. Backed away until a wall came up against her. Uncle Simon! A magistrate? The duke finding out? Terror chilled her to the bone, swallowing up the earlier fear of going to bed with this stranger—swallowed it up as a large fish swallows a smaller one.

  “Please, sir? -Not the magistrate—I’ll do anything.”

  He laughed unkindly.

  “I wager you will.”

  Furious at being deceived by such sweetness, McNeil strode to the quaking girl. Three jet black buttons clasped her cloak at the throat. With an angry wrench, he yanked them open. The cloak slid down the silk of her modest gown, falling to the floor with a swish. Roughly, he grabbed her. Sour disappointment roused him to cat-and-mouse cruelty.

  “Shall I let you leave?” he said, with no intention of doing so. She quaked in violent hope. Bright blue color swirled into the green of her eyes.

  “Oh, yes, sir. Please, sir.”

  Then, as suddenly as the hope had risen in her eyes, it receded, dying. She dropped her head.

  “No, sir. I—I—cannot leave, sir.”

  Dumbfounded, he forgot he was toying with her. He stared down at her, unable to comprehend. She wanted to go. But she couldn’t. Why? Slowly, comprehension dawned.

  Of course she couldn’t leave. Not without earning some coins. Her master would flog her. He swallowed, trying to fight the pity that rose. This delicate creature coming under the whip? It sickened him.

  He stomped on the tender feelings with steel boots, growling, “If you’re staying, do not waste my time. Begin! Kiss me.”

  To his irritation, her dark velvety eyelashes began to shine with wetness. She squeezed her eyes shut. She drew an agonized breath. He could feel her heart quake. Obedient to his surly command, she worked shaking hands up his chest. She curled ice cold fingers around his hot neck. Eyes still squeezed shut, she tilted her face up to his. She pursed her lips like a child.

  McNeil was stunned. My God, had the little whore never been kissed before? He wanted to laugh. But somehow he could not. The sweet earnestness of the gesture disarmed him. Vengeful lust wavered and began to fade. A quieter feeling came.

  Softly he kissed the pursed, trembling lips.

  “You kiss like a child,” he whispered. Her eyes flew open, flying into his. For a jolting moment something like lightning passed between them. Call it discovery. Call it the sweet stab of something neither of them had felt before. Her trembling lips ventured a shy half-smile.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she whispered.

  “Don’t be. It shall be my pleasure to teach

  ?»

  you.

  His mouth came down and Flavia’s heart fluttered in stirring excitement. She was afraid of this man and yet at the same time she felt an odd, insane trust. He kissed her and then she understood his gentle criticism. No one had ever kissed her like this! Certainly not the duke, who called kissing a filthy habit. Certainly not her parents or Uncle Simon.

  Her pulse raced in fear and anticipation for what must follow as he drew his head back and whispered, “Your mouth is as sweet as honey. I’ve never tasted sweeter...”

  A gentle desire pounded through McNeil. He felt a fierce surge of protectiveness for the trembling girl. God, she was a delicate thing. So slender she could be lost in a man’s arms.

  He picked her up and carried her to the bed. She stiffened in seeming fear until he kissed away her resistance. When she wilted against his hot body like a flower wilting in the sun, he slowly peeled away her clothing. It was like peeling away the petals of a rose.

  He took her. It was a slow, joyous taking and he was gratified when her small body flushed suddenly with heat and she gasped under him.

  “Oh!” she gasped timidly, her eyes widening in surprise.

  McNeil was amazed. Amazed and exhilarated. Had the little whore never? Incredible.

  It was a wildly happy moment for him. It was like the first time he’d taken the wheel of the Caroline and felt her respond to his slightest touch. He smiled down at the blushing girl in his arms.

  “Oh,” he teased softly.

  He gazed upon her flushed loveliness. Shyly, she met his eyes and smiled. For an endless moment they gazed at each other. Not as whore and hirer, but as man and woman.

  Then her dark lashes fluttered. She looked away in some nameless emotion. But when he bent to kiss her again, he did not have to tease her mouth open as he’d done at first. With a shy generosity that both charmed and puzzled him, she lifted her velvet mouth to his.

  * * * *

  “Two o’clock and a thick fog . . . . two o’clock and all’s well...”

  Deep in the shadows of the bed, Flavia Rochambeau, duchess of Tewksbury, fearfully held her breath as she listened to the fading, fog-muffled cry of the watchman. Belowstairs, the brawling revelry had faded too. A man still sang drunkenly. A whining woman—the tavern-keeper’s wife?—loudly complained of the night’s damages.

  The hour was late. The deed, done.

  More than done, she reflected, flushing in sudden shame as her mind raced over the past hours. She drew a quick, dizzying breath, then fought to expel it slowly, silently.

  She mustn’t wake him!

  Gentle as he’d been, she still feared him. His overwhelming maleness, tempered with a playful air, had shaken her to the core. He’d set her brain spinning.

  No, she mustn’t wake him. After the second time he’d taken her, he’d drowsily amused himself by teasing her:

  Did she like ships? Good, for she’d soon be on one. He was taking her to Virginia to become his mistress.

  Did she have skills to fend off lunatics? Yes? Good, for she’d soon meet his younger brother, who behaved like a lunatic over pretty women.

  Did she like the color red? Good, he would buy her a dozen red dresses on the morrow.

  Sleepily kissing her bare shoulder, he demanded to know her name. Fortunately, Flavia was spared replying. Sleep carried him off in a sigh of satisfaction.

  Now he lay heavy beside her, his brown lean arm flung over her. She breathed quietly. But the warm scent of him set her heart fluttering.

  So this was what it w
as meant to be.

  So this was the man-woman thing.

  How could she have known? The passionate lovemaking of this handsome, playful stranger in no way resembled what passed for the duke’s marital act. True, the duke was old and his stern German heritage outweighed the Englishman in him. But, more, he was devoid of passion. Even at fifteen, she’d sensed that.

  His twice-weekly visits to her bedchamber were prompted by desire for an heir, not desire of a woman. He dispatched his duty with hurried distaste. He never fondled her, never kissed. If any passion throbbed within the duke, that passion was directed to his magnificent collection of jade carvings. Already, hundreds of priceless Oriental pieces filled Tewksbury Hall’s receiving rooms.

  Tewksbury Hall... Flavia breathed softly,musing. God willing, nine months from tonight the corridors of Tewksbury would echo with the birth cry of a future duke or duchess. If a son, the baby immediately would take the duke’s lesser title, his German title, Marquis of Bladensburg. And she would be safe! Safety for everyone—herself, Papa and Mother, her sisters. Perhaps the duke would honor her longstanding request. Elated over his heir, perhaps he would grant Uncle Simon a stipend and allow Uncle Simon to retire from his clerical post at the Board of Trade. Her breath caught with hope, but then she sighed. No. The duke would not do so. The duke sat on the Board of Trade. He was adamant about keeping Uncle Simon in his post. Flavia found the duke’s attitude a grievous mystery. The duke was rich; Uncle Simon, old and ill.

  The stranger stirred on his pillow. Flavia held her breath. He mumbled, groped for her shoulder, patted it and then sank into deep sleep. Flavia watched him. Shame kindled in her cheeks as she gazed at him. Shame for her sin, shame for the feelings he’d awakened in her, shame that the rest of her life would be ruled by deceit.

  Deceit.

  If this night didn’t bring a child, she would be forced to... She wrenched her face away, her pillow rustling. Dear God, no! No one else! Not after the wonder of tonight! Heart hammering, she lay there praying for a child and alternately begging God not to give her one. She trembled at the thought of the duke’s shrewd eyes inspecting his heir. Suppose he grew suspicious? Panic surged. She must get back to Uncle Simon, back to the coach, back to Uncle’s house, where she was presumed to be spending the night.

  The sea captain’s arm was dead weight upon her. His breathing was deep, calm. She must go. Uncle would be pacing the alley, eaten up with worry. The hour was terribly late.

  Flavia cast her eyes about the room, getting her bearings. The room was poorly lit. The oil lamp scattered grotesque shadows that changed form with each flicker of flame. She made out her cloak, lying in a dark heap on the floor. Petticoats and bodice topped a broken chair. Her chemise and stockings rested beneath his breeches on the floor beside the bed.

  Holding her breath, she carefully lifted his leaden arm and inched out from under his hot embrace. Icy sheets met her legs, an icy floor her bare feet.

  Escaping the bed, she dressed in haste. When a silk petticoat rustled going over her head, she caught her breath. She froze, her eyes leaping to the bed. But he slept on. Snatching up her cloak, she stole to the door. Her heart hammered as she eased up the heavy crossbar. Luck was with her. The battered old door with its decoration of knife scars opened without comment.

  Hovering on the threshold, she permitted herself a glance at the figure on the bed. His hair was shockingly dark against the pillow. It had not seemed so when she was close. She had a sudden urge to cross the room and study the color of his hair, drinking it in, engraving the detail in her memory, where she could keep it and cherish it forever. But this she knew to be foolishness. Foolishness born of the stress of this unnatural night. Still, she hovered, gazing wistfully at him.

  I shall never see him again. Never.

  She knew she should feel profound relief. But somehow the finality of it settled into her heart like a stone. She could feel tears gathering. She blinked them away.

  “I don’t even know your name,” she whispered softly. “Only that you are captain of the Caroline ...”

  In the sputtering lamplight, he moved restlessly in his sleep. Flavia caught her breath. Sweeping her gaze over him one last time, she turned and slipped into a hallway that reeked of fried fish and ale. Soundlessly, she pulled the door shut.

  Fighting tears, she flew down the ill-lit passageway, and, stumbling blindly down creaking uneven stairs, ran out into the fog and into her godfather’s comforting arms.

  Chapter 3

  September 1753

  Almost two years later

  Tewksbury Hall was ablaze with light. Set against the starless London night and the black flowing river, the seventy-room ducal mansion glittered like a fairyland.

  Within, countless candles of the finest beeswax flamed in ornate silver and brass sconces. The melting wax sent up a delicate, expensive fragrance. In the east and west wing ballrooms, crystal chandeliers were springing to life. Footmen in black and gold livery tiptoed to each chandelier, lifting long brass candlelighters to candles nestled in crystal. The candle wicks caught fire one by one and prisms of light shot out from chandeliers and went spinning over a polished rich walnut dancing floor. The immense empty chambers reverberated with the discordant sounds of violins tuning up.

  Out of doors, the dark rolling grounds of Tewksbury twinkled with diamond-like light. Brass lanterns burned everywhere: lanterns dotted the vast gardens; lanterns marched down formal French terraces to the river; lanterns converged on red-carpeted landings where wealthy guests would arrive in private river barges; lanterns lit a newly constructed gazebo at the water’s edge where additional violinists sent lilting tunes out upon the night waters.

  The duke of Tewksbury had spared no expense to ensure that the first birthday of his heir, Robert Charles Neville Rochambeau would be the crowning event of London’s social season.

  Flavia’s silver kid slippers clicked nervously down the marble corridor of the east wing. Obedient to the duke’s wishes, she’d spent the day under the exhausting ministrations of dress-maker, hairdresser, perfumer, jeweler—every sort of sycophant. Their incessant chatter, their bickering, had driven all rational thought from her mind. But perhaps that was to the good, she reasoned wearily. Tonight she must not think too much. She mustn’t brood. For this eve of her son’s natal day awakened all the old fears. It awakened all the old yearnings too, she was forced to admit.

  It had been almost two years. Where was “he”? Was he alive and well? What might he be doing at this very moment?

  The yearning that had been her legacy since the night on the quay, welled up. Fed by the festive occasion, the yearning throbbed with fresh intensity.

  Oh, why couldn’t she forget the man!

  With a vividness that made her ashamed, she remembered his gentle touch, his masculine smell. When she closed her eyes at night to sleep, he was there; and though she might weep in helpless frustration, she couldn’t help remembering his thrilling kisses.

  Lost in memory, she shivered. The brisk click of her heels slowed. Her steps flagged. To remember such things was to open herself to jeopardy. To yearn for him was dangerous. What of her position? What of her parents? And Robert?

  She drew a scared, determined breath. Above all, she must protect the baby. No hint of scandal must touch him. She was well aware that at his birth London wags had amused themselves by joking about the duke’s late-found virility. People had dredged up tittle-tattle about the duke’s previous duchesses.

  Terrified that gossips might cast their malicious eyes upon her, she’d withdrawn like a turtle into its shell. Gradually, her warm, trusting nature had chilled to ice. In less than two years, the open-hearted girl had become the cool, unapproachable duchess of Tewksbury. If the metamorphosis had displeased her puzzled family and her friends, it had pleased the duke, Flavia mused unhappily. The duke disliked females who wore their feelings on their sleeves. The new, aloof Flavia was more to his taste. She realized he’d paid her the ultimate c
ompliment when, during their dreary dinners in the immense dining hall, he’d begun to assault her with dry little histories of his jade collection.

  Secure in the knowledge that an heir slept in the nursery, he’d dispensed with visits to her bedchamber. In this Flavia had felt relief, for his cold, efficient performing of marital duty left her sobbing into her pillow for that which was lost to her... for that which must always be lost to her if she intended to protect her son and herself.

  Wearily, she sighed in resignation. If life was to be loveless, then so be it. There were other satisfactions. There was satisfaction in lavishing love upon her adorable son. There was satisfaction in seeing Papa prosperous and happy, in shepherding her younger sisters into good matches.

  But, for herself? The question hung in the air.

  She frowned in determination. Straightening the shoulders that felt so burdened, she said aloud, “I shall survive.”

  “M’lady?”

  A young footman with inquiring eyes bobbed out from his post in the corridor beside an enormous Flemish tapestry. Flavia stiffened, controlling the impulse to shriek in startled surprise. She’d not seen the lad, as his livery blended into a tapestry scene depicting the crusaders’ march to the Holy Land.

  He ducked his head in a nervous bow. “M'lady?”

  Flavia shook her head and granted him a chilly smile. It was a smile that served her well these days, keeping all persons—highborn or low—at arm’s length. The carefully cultivated smile isolated her, kept her safe from kitchen gossip and the more vicious snipes of the well-born. Head high, she swept past the boy without replying.

  Her light step echoed down the corridor, carrying her to the balcony of mirrors that overlooked the white marble entrance hall below. A marble staircase curved downward from each side of the balcony. As she lifted her skirts slightly to descend, cloth-of-silver peeped from beneath her gown, swirling at her ankles. Clicking down the snow-white staircase, she anxiously studied her repeating image in the mirrored panels that followed her down. Her anxiety lessened with each candle-lit image.