Candice Hern (5 page)

"Who could have done such a thing?" Beatrice asked, astonished that any man would have such audacity. At least her own masked lover had not pretended to be someone else. He'd simply been a maharaja-garbed man who'd clearly desired her. Beatrice had not stopped thinking about that desire, and her own, for days, and was still conflicted about it.

"As it happens," Marianne said, "I know who it was."

The trustees listened in amazement as Marianne revealed that her secret lover had been her closest friend, Adam Cazenove. Wilhelmina, the Dowager Duchess of Hertford, was the only one who seemed unsurprised by the news, claiming she had always suspected Adam was in love with Marianne.

The business of the Fund was cast aside as they spent the next half hour discussing Marianne's predicament. Each time Adam's lovemaking skills were mentioned, Beatrice felt her skin flush in reminiscence of her maharaja. She had to wonder if she would ever have considered going into the garden with him if the trustees had stuck to business and never become the Merry Widows. Their frank, and often racy, conversations had, she believed, primed her for seduction. She did not know if she should scold them for leading her astray, or thank them.

The discussion of Marianne's dilemma ultimately descended into silliness and laughter and talk of laying in supplies of juniper juice for contraceptive purposes. Even Grace, the prim and prudish widow of the late, great Bishop Marlowe, became caught up in the merriment of the moment.

Finally, Penelope turned to Beatrice, the movement causing her soft brown, fashionably cropped curls to bounce against her cheeks. "And what about you, Beatrice? What have you been up to while we were enjoying the interesting happenings at Ossing? I don't suppose you have found yourself a lover, have you?"

Her eyes twinkled with mischief. Penelope was bound and determined that they should all take lovers, as she had done, for the sake of their health and happiness. She had a new lover, Eustace Tolliver, and had regaled her friends with the details of his prowess in the bedroom.

Beatrice had given a great deal of thought as to whether or not she should confess to her garden encounter. She was still more than a little embarrassed about it. Yet at the same time, she was brimming with excitement over the pure boldness of it. In fact, it was that push-pull between mortification and delight that had finally convinced her to tell her friends what had happened. Perhaps they would be able to help sort out her feelings.

She took a deep breath and offered Penelope a half-hearted smile. "It is quite possible I have," she said.

Penelope gave a little shriek. "I knew it!" She pounded the tea table so hard that every cup and saucer and bowl rattled precariously. Beatrice and Marianne grabbed their cups before they could topple, and Grace steadied the table with her hands. Penelope was oblivious to it all. "I told the others you were up to something," she said, her face wreathed in a dazzling smile.

"I wasn't up to anything before you left," Beatrice said, "but something quite unexpected happened while you were gone."

And so, with encouragement from all four ladies, and with constant pressing for details from Penelope, Beatrice told her tale.

"I confess I have been torn apart by the whole affair," she said at last. "I have felt shame, delight, embarrassment, wonder. I haven't known whether I'm coming or going."

"It is rather shocking," Grace said, quite as one would have expected.

"I think it is frightfully exciting," Penelope said, with equal predictability. "I declare, it is more interesting even than Marianne's situation. But how extraordinary that you each found such pleasure in a stranger's arms. Perhaps there is something to be said for a bit of mystery. I wonder —"

"Don't get any ideas, my girl," the duchess said. "I don't want to hear of you dashing off with every stranger who makes eyes at you."

Penelope snorted. "No, I suppose Eustace would not like it."

"No, he would not," Grace said. "He cares for you, in case you had not noticed."

Penelope turned to her and beamed. "Do you think so?"

"But you have no idea," Marianne said to Beatrice, getting back to the point at hand, "no idea at all who he might have been?"

"I am afraid not," Beatrice said. "Indoors, he was masked. And outdoors ... well, it was very dark."

"I know the feeling," Marianne murmured.

"And up against a wall, no less," Penelope said, and heaved a little sigh. "How exceedingly daring of you."

"Or exceedingly cheap and vulgar," Beatrice said, "like a doxy in a dark alley."

"Do not be so hard on yourself," Wilhelmina said. "You are no doxy and it does not sound as though he treated you like one."

Beatrice felt her face flush at the duchess's words. Though Wilhelmina had ultimately married a duke, it was easy to forget that she had started out life as little better than a cheap doxy. Shw was quite open about her past, but Beatrice knew that she sometimes felt the differences between her and the other trustees very keenly.

"You are right," Beatrice said. "It was not a slam-bang sort of affair. He took his time with me. He ... he pleasured me. He did not treat me as a lightskirt. I have simply felt like one from time to time since that evening. I have never done anything like that before, and it is still unsettling to me."

"You were emboldened by the darkness, I daresay," Marianne said in a wistful tone that hinted it had been just so in her own case.

"The worst part, though," Beatrice said, "is that I was so determined he not see me and recognize me, or I him, that I bolted. It seemed the right thing to do at the time, but instead I have been driving myself mad every time I see a dark-haired, dark-eyed man of the same build, wondering if he was my maharaja. I can barely look a man in the eye for fear I will somehow recognize him."

"And what if you do?" the duchess asked. Wilhelmina was older and wiser than the rest of them, and she'd had a great deal of experience with men. Ever since their Merry Widows' pact, Wilhelmina's rather scandalous past and her knowledge of men and love affairs had become a useful resource. She was also the kindest and most generous of women. "Will you bolt again?" she asked.

"I don't know," Beatrice said. "I suppose it depends on how he reacts if
he
recognizes
me
. What will I see in his eyes? Mockery? Scorn?"

"I doubt that," Wilhelmina said. "He asked your name. That means he wanted to see you again."

"Yes, he said as much as I ran away."

"Silly woman," Penelope said. "What on earth made you run away from such a man?"

"Because she was shocked at what she'd done," Grace said, and they all turned to look at her. "Well, weren't you? I certainly would have been."

"I am sure you would," Penelope said, "and we would all have been equally shocked, I assure you."

"Grace is right," Beatrice said. "That is why I ran away. But I admit that for one tiny moment, I almost turned back. Even then, I was torn and confused. After all, I'd never done anything remotely disgraceful in all my life. I'd never been with any man other than Somerfield. I frightened myself, you see, and so I ran."

"The question is," Wilhelmina asked, "will you continue to run if you see him again?"

Four anxious pairs of eyes turned to Beatrice. She wished she could oblige them with a firm answer. "I don't know. I truly do not know. I suppose a lot depends on who he is. He could be someone's husband, God forbid."

"What did he say to you?" the duchess asked. "Was there any hint about family or background?"

"Let me think. I asked if we had met before and he was quite sure we had not. Or so he said. And my costume and mask were not that much of a disguise, so it cannot have been a matter of simply not recognizing me."

"Assuming he was telling the truth," Penelope said, "then he must be new to London. Everyone knows you, Beatrice. He is either some undesirable sort from a different level of society, or he has lived a life somewhere outside of London."

"A country gentleman?" Wilhelmina asked.

"A soldier?" Penelope asked.

"I don't think so," Beatrice said. "Unless he was a general. He had a very confident, almost arrogant bearing."

"What about his costume?" Grace asked. "Was it truly Indian? Could he have just come from India?"

"He's a nabob!" Penelope exclaimed, clapping her hands together in glee. "Beatrice, you've found yourself a rich nabob. What fun!"

Beatrice laughed. "Don't be silly, Pen. His was not the only maharaja costume at the ball. I'm sure he must have got his from a theatrical company or some such place. Besides, would a nabob have somehow procured an invitation to the Wallingford ball? Mary suggested he might have used someone else's invitation to gain admittance, but then he'd have to have
ton
connections, would he not?"

"If he's rich enough," Marianne said, "he could find acceptance fairly easily, I should think. And a lot of men have made a great deal of money in India, some of them from very good families. He need not have been a struggling clerk who made a fortune in diamonds. He may be a gentleman."

"And if he's not," Penelope said with a shrug, "what does it matter?"

"You are all getting carried away," Beatrice said. "I don’t think the costume had any special significance."

"And it
does
matter," Grace said. "If he is not an honorable gentleman, he might resort to gossip if he ever learns your identity. Whether he is a nabob, a duke, or a laborer, we must hope that he is to be trusted."

"As a matter of fact," Beatrice said, "I have been a bit concerned about that. Besides worrying that every man I see might be him, I also have feared that he truly did recognize me and that now every man I see knows what I did with him. I
so
hope he is not one of those unscrupulous men who flaunts his conquests to the world."

"Like Lord Rochdale," Grace said, and gave a little shudder.

"Exactly. I would hate to endure what poor Serena Underwood went through. Rochdale's open acknowledgment of their affair, and then his public rejection of her, was worse than cruel."

"I think it best that we assume your maharaja did not know your identity, but that if he did, he is a trustworthy, honorable gentleman," Marianne said. "Unless and until we learn otherwise."

"And if he is," Penelope said, "and if you run him to earth again, by God you must keep him this time. Don't bolt like a green girl. Meet him as a woman, as a lover, and steal every moment you can. That is what our pact is all about — finding pleasure in a man's arms again, just because we want to."

"But with discretion," Grace said. "You must always be discreet and take care for your reputation."

"Of course, Grace. You must not worry that I will do anything to embarrass the Fund." Assuming she hadn't done so already, and that the fellow hadn't begun smearing her name in the betting books. "Besides, if I ever discover who he was, I haven't yet decided what I will do. It may come about that I do nothing."

Then again, if her body kept singing its sensuous tune every time the stranger was mentioned, she might indeed have to do
something
.

* * *

"You are still determined to track her down?" Jeremy Burnett was ensconced comfortably in a large wing chair in Thayne's sitting room at Doncaster House, his lanky limbs sprawled in every direction.

"Of course," Thayne said from the depths of his own wing chair. "I intend to find her."

"In the name of your bridal quest?"

Thayne quirked a grin. "Not exactly. I had something else in mind."

He caught the brief flicker of interest in the eyes of Ramesh as he set out the hookah on a small table between the two wing chairs. The young valet had come with Thayne from India and was still trying to make sense of Western society. He had expressed some confusion about the relationships between English men and women, which seemed to him so much more complicated in their monogamy than the purdah and harems he was accustomed to in India.

"So you have two quests, then," Burnett said. "A bride and a ..." He slanted a glance at Ramesh and smiled. "A bibi."

A glint of understanding lit Ramesh's dark eyes before he schooled them once again into the calm, disinterested manner of the invisible servant. He would understand the concept of the Indian bibi, which was what the British men in India called their native mistresses. Burnett, who'd spent the last seven years with Thayne in India, had used the term for Ramesh's benefit. But Thayne had no intention of setting up a separate household with a mistress and children, as was done with bibis in India. "No bibis," he said. "I just want to find the elusive Artemis and convince her to embark on a simple love affair. The bridal quest is another matter."

"But I thought you were committed to the plan?"

"I am. It was the bargain I made with my father when I turned twenty-one. He would allow me to indulge my passion for adventure and travel so long as I promised to return to England and take a bride before my thirtieth birthday. I am committed to honor that promise — I celebrate my birthday in December. I know my duty, but the whole business of selecting a bride is a daunting prospect. Especially as my mother has made it her business to trot out as many candidates as possible."

"Yes, mothers love that sort of thing."

"Especially mothers who are also duchesses," Thayne said. "They are determined that their successors are worthy of the title. In the end, it hardly matters what
I
want."

Ramesh wiped the hookah bowl with a clean cloth, then placed the tobacco in the bowl and slightly dampened it. He set the bowl aside and filled the base with water. It was a beautiful object, given to Thayne by a Hyderabad official, and made of the local bidri ware inlaid with silver. He watched as Ramesh handled it with care that was almost worshipful.

"Any promising candidates so far?" Burnett asked as he, too, kept an anxious eye on Ramesh's ministrations. The hookah was a guilty pleasure neither of the Englishmen had been willing to give up when they returned to London. It was too exotic to smoke in public, at their clubs, but here in Thayne's private apartments there was nothing to stop them.