Edith Layton (9 page)

“I’m surprised,” she heard Rafe say harshly. “It’s not like you to play games with innocents, Ewen.”

“You know she’s an innocent?” Ewen said.

“Doesn’t take a genius to see it. She’s green as grass. Nothing wrong with that; a man’s tastes change over the years, I suppose. Anyone might develop a taste for lamb.”

“Mind your tongue.” Ewen said gently, but with warning.

“Yes, that’s just it. The air of sanctity. It isn’t like you, Ewen.”

“You might not know me after all.”

“I might not want to if—Oh,” Rafe said.

Bridget stood in the doorway. She held up her head and extended a hand to Ewen, posing for him. He stood staring at her, his eyes opened wide, his expression unreadable.

“I didn’t need all the clothing, indeed I did not,” she told him, “and so I said, and so I won’t have as many things as you wanted. It doesn’t matter. T
his
does. I never knew this could be. Oh, thank you, Ewen. This is beyond anything,
anything
I ever imagined.”

“Apologies, old friend,” Rafe said with a twisted smile. “My mistake entirely.”

“Good afternoon, Rafe. We’ll speak about this again later,” Ewen said, not looking at his friend.

Rafe bowed and left, whistling a jaunty tune.

Bridget wanted to smile in triumph. It was good that her face was too tight to allow it. I
t won’t do to look too conceited
, she thought, waiting for him to praise her, to find words to show how astonished and pleased he was. But Ewen didn’t speak for a long moment.

“Go upstairs,” he finally said in a toneless voice. “Take that damned mess off your face.”

She blinked. “What? What are you talking about? Can’t you see? Isn’t it wonderful?”

“I see you look like a whore now, that’s what I see,” he said furiously. “What possessed you? Or is it only your true nature coming out? Did you think that once you were in my house, under my protection, you could finally fly your true colors? We’re not married yet, my dear, and the way things are looking now, we may never be. Just as well, just as well,” he muttered. “I only investigated your background here in London. I should have
been more careful. God knows I ought to have known better.”

“What?” she said, her smooth, tight face cracking into a mask of grief as tears began to spill from her eyes. “What are you
saying
? It looks lovely, they all said so. Look.” She raised her face, scarcely able to see him through the tears. “You can’t have seen. T
here’s no scar
, E
wen
. Look, none at all. It’s vanished. I’m not a…what are you
saying
?”

He put a hand over his eyes, and his shoulders slumped. “Oh, God,” he said, “of course not. What was I thinking? Bridget, don’t cry,” he said, just as Finch had. But Finch had been right to say it, because when Bridget put her hand to her cheeks to try to wipe away the tears, she felt the smooth surface had become wet and slimy, and when she looked at her hand, she saw a gluey white smear, along with bits of cracked plaster clinging to her fingers.

That made her cry harder, in shame and despair because the lovely image had been shattered.

“But
you
sent them,” she said in confusion.

“To dress you. not to change your face.” Ewen said, and against her tearful protests, he gathered her in his arms. “Hush,” he whispered. “I’m a fool. I didn’t realize. Bridget, lovely Bridget, it’s a stage trick. Finch, I suppose. Or that madman Jocelyn. It’s not for you. Never for you.”

“It looked good to me in my mirror,” Bridget wept. “It looked wonderful.” He could feel her draw in a sudden, sharp breath. She gazed up at him, her voice shaking but determined. “Madame Blau said…she said some men like flaws. She said some men have odd fancies. Is it that, Ewen? If it is, please tell me now.”

“No,” he said in a harsh voice. “My ‘odd fancy’ is to see you healthy. Actresses only wear that sort of cosmetic for a few hours at a time, and even so they’re at risk. Offstage, that concoction’s for raddled women or courtesans who are growing old. It poisons your skin. It’s only for those who have much worse to disguise than you do.” His eyes were dark and serious. He heaved a deep sigh and held her by the shoulders so he could look into her eyes.

But then he felt how delicate those shoulders were beneath his hands, and how shuddering sobs still shook them as she tried to gain control. His thumbs made small circles on her smooth skin as he spoke, as he tried to caress her and speak a difficult truth at the same time.

“Listen, my dear,” he said softly, angling his head, trying to catch her eye so she could see his concern. “There are diseases women—and men—can get, diseases of the lower body that come from sexual relations with a diseased partner. These conditions also pit and destroy the skin. Such cosmetics are used then because the reality is so much worse. But you—I told you, I find the scar no flaw in your appearance.”

She raised her head. Her face was smeared, the cosmetic cracked into pieces, showing her own pale peach complexion beneath. He looked into grave gray eyes bright with tears and caught his breath. It was as though he saw a beautiful living woman emerging from the marble she had been sculpted from. The sculpture, he thought, could have been titled “Misery.” He lowered his lips to hers and kissed her gently, then drew back.

Her eyes widened. “Ewen! Your jacket! It looks as though someone spread plaster all over it!”

He glanced down. His dark blue jacket was ruined. “Someone did.”

She bit her lip, and then slowly, unexpectedly—and enchantingly, he thought—a grin formed on her lips, making the last of her mask splinter into a network of cracks. “Serves you right,” she said with more spirit, “saying I looked like a…talking about investigating me further.” Her smile faded. She glanced down at the cosmetic caked on her hand, not at him, and took a steadying breath.

“What you said,” she remarked pensively. “I think it’s as well we’re not married, too. Yes. I see this was a bad, bad idea, after all. I can’t go back to Aunt Harriet. But I do have a mother.” She looked up at him again. “I only ask—this is so embarrassing, but…could you please just lend me a few shillings? I have most of the fare, you see, and I promise I’ll pay you back.”

“Bridget, forgive me,” he said ruefully. “I had a devil of a morning. Trying to get the law to move fast is like trying to get the House of Lords to waltz. It will take a day, maybe more, to get a special license, which is so much faster than anyone else can get one, but too slow for me, even
with
all my connections. And then to come home to find Rafe smirking and you looking like…but again, forgive me. Whatever my problems, I’d no right to leap to conclusions, and such stupid ones at that. I’m sorry.

“And if you don’t marry me,” he added, “I’ll sue you for breach of promise, and how will you ever get to Ireland if you have to pay me all your money? Come, let’s forget this. Wash your face—or heap on another pound of that ghastly stuff, if you really want—and I’ll take you to dinner. We’ll enjoy London tonight. That new gown’s too lovely to waste.”

“But it’s only basted together,” she said. “It could come apart at a touch.”

“Is that a promise?” he asked with a curling smile.

They left his townhouse as evening fell. They rode in his town carriage, a coachman at the reins, a footman at the back. Bridget sat in the luxurious coach, a little nervous, but gleeful, too. If they should run into Cecily, it would be awkward, but Bridget decided she’d greet her and forgive her and Aunt Harriet both. She was feeling very charitable tonight.

She wore no cosmetics. She was through with that fantasy. But she felt as though she were living in one anyway. She wore the gold dress, because Ewen had had the seamstress send over her assistant to stitch it up right. The gold dress,
and
a lovely new paisley shawl, soft as the spring night, fragrant as a bouquet, in shades of rose and gold. She wore new slippers and carried a lovely fan, courtesy of Finch. Her hair was done up at the top of her head, the way Jocelyn had showed her. And she held that head high, because Ewen sat next to her, severe as a priest in black and white, but attractive as the very devil.

“Are we going to a house party?” she asked. “A concert, a ball? Or the theater? The opera? Please tell me! I know you like surprises, but the suspense is dreadful. I’d like to prepare myself, mentally, that is, because I don’t know how I could look better—even with a pound of Finch’s concoction,” she added with a giggle. She could laugh about it now. Tonight she could laugh about anything.

“No, no party or ball.” His deep voice was regretful. “Not the theater or a concert, either. We can’t go out in public yet, Bridget. Remember, we’re not yet married.

We have no chaperone. You’ve left your family’s protection. There’s a restaurant I know that is discreet, though.”

The restaurant was in a townhouse, the entrance on the side. It was done up with gold statues in the anteroom, and heavy crimson curtains were everywhere. Not that Bridget got to see much of it. The host bowed them into their own private curtained alcove a moment after they set foot in the place. They sat at a small table. Bridget thought it was almost as if they were eating in a very elegant closet. She couldn’t see any other diners, but there were flowers everywhere. Hidden musicians played soft music from a crimson-draped balcony.

The food was French, and there were many courses, but Bridget toyed with whatever Ewen put on her plate. Her food and her laughter seemed to stick in her throat. Ewen tried to joke with her, but after a while he too fell silent, his dark face shuttered and thoughtful.

“Are you still angry with me?” he finally asked. He tapped his spoon on the table as he waited for her answer.

She raised sad eyes to his. “No. I told you I understood. It’s just that I feel like an outcast—not good enough for society, not bad enough for the streets.”

His spoon stopped tapping. “All right,” he said suddenly, “we’ll go to Vauxhall, it’s still early. We’ll stroll the grounds, see the displays. It’s dark enough to discourage gossip, but they keep it lit well enough to see everything. We’ve had good times in gardens, Bridget, haven’t we?”

She smiled, and was still smiling when he called for the waiter and paid the bill. They went to the door but had to stand aside as several new diners entered on gusts of laughter fragrant with liquor and heavy per
fume. The men were dressed like Ewen, but the women weren’t ladies; their gowns were too gauzy, their laughter too loud. They didn’t wear maquillage, but their lips and cheeks were berry red and their eyelashes were coated with black. One of the men stared at Ewen.

“Sinclair!” he shouted. “Watch your women, chaps!”

“He doesn’t need my filly,” another giggled. “He’s got his own, and she’s an original. Damme, Sinclair, if you don’t find the most unusual every time!”

“Pretty as a picture, even if the glass is cracked,” the first man agreed. “Too bad you saw her first, Ewen. I fancy a bit of strangeness now and then myself.”

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Ewen said firmly. Since it seemed she couldn’t move, he put his hand at Bridget’s back and hurried her out the door.

She said nothing until they reached his coach. “I want to go home now,” she said in a small voice before she stepped in.

He paused and then nodded. “Home,” he told the coachman tersely. “I wanted to go for their throats, you know,” he remarked in the silence as the coach bore them back to his townhouse, “but it would’ve made matters worse. The less talk about us before we marry, the better afterward. It seems my bachelor friends aren’t suitable anymore. I wouldn’t have realized it if not for you. So now I also see there’s no place in London for us to go tonight. But when we return from my father’s house, I promise, the King himself will see you.”

“The King is mad, they say,” she said dully. “They say he sees spirits, too.”

He smiled in spite of himself. “Then the Prince will see you, and he, I promise, will be mad
for
you.”

Several minutes later, as he closed the front door of
his townhouse behind them, Ewen asked, “Would you care for some coffee? Some tea? Port?”

“I’d like to go to bed,” she said softly.

“So would I,” he said. When her eyes widened, he shrugged. “I know, not yet. I’ll go out tomorrow and tear Parliament down if I can’t get that damned license. Not just because I want you in my bed,” he added, touching her upturned cheek, “but because I want you everywhere in my life. Good night, Bridget. I’m sorry my outing turned so flat. I’ve apologized to you twice today,” he added in wonder. “You bring all sorts of new experiences, don’t you? Unsatisfied desire and guilt, all in a day.”

“You bring them to me, too,” she said seriously. “Shame and regret, all in a night.”

“Is that all?” He wagged a finger at her. “Then shame again, Bridget, because I’ve caught you in a lie. You forgot unsatisfied desire, didn’t you?”

“No,” she said sadly, “but, my lord, that’s not new to me.”

He watched her go up the stairs. He yearned to go with her. They would share the night under the same roof, but not the same bed, and that was dazzlingly different for him. And one of the reasons why he was so obsessed with her, he thought. He’d wanted other women, too many to count. But this was different—or so he told himself, even as he remembered he told himself that every time.

But this time, he thought urgently, he wanted more than just a woman’s body; he wanted her mind and heart, too. It wouldn’t be simple. It never was. But this was unique and dangerous, even for him. Even so, and perhaps even because it was so, he felt alive again for the first time since he’d left the Continent.

He stood tensely, watching how slowly she moved up the stairs, every step showing her sadness, hesitation, and fear. He held himself in tight check, denying his body’s natural impulses, his mind’s demands. He knew he could stride up the stairs after her. He could call to her, stop her, turn her around in so many ways. Then he could teach her how they could cure each other’s disappointments and doubts. In her present solemn, needy mood, he could press the matter and persuade her. He knew it. He had arts, and she had few defenses. But he didn’t want her that way. It was his way or no way. And tomorrow was only hours away.