Kasey Michaels (30 page)

“Tell you? Tell you what,
chérie
?” Desiree asked idly as she took a freshly pressed night rail from a drawer. She straightened, one hand to the small of her aching back, for she had fallen asleep in a chair, waiting for her charge to come to bed. “Ah,” she said after a moment, nodding her head. “He has kissed you,
oui
? The so sober duke has unbent his starchy self, and he has kissed you. And don’t bother to lie,
ma petite
. I am Desiree, and I know. I have a sense about these things. The tear stains on your cheeks, the confusion, that glow from within that shines from your eyes. I have seen your
maman
looking thus, too many times to count.”

Sophie remained in the middle of the bed, sitting cross-legged atop the satin coverlet, still fully dressed, her skirts billowing around her. She’d been sitting thus for a full ten minutes, composing herself, watching Desiree sleep, listening to the woman snore. Now she grabbed her bent knees, rocking back and forth, refusing to give in to impulse and run to the nearest mirror, to see if she really looked different, if Bramwell’s kiss, his touch, had actually changed her outside as he had melted her insides.

“He kissed me, yes,” Sophie answered, knowing a fib told in the face of her dearest friend would be as effective as employing a feather to topple a mountain. “Once. Just the once. And he—he touched me. Nothing more than that. But it was... it wasn’t at all like I’d thought. It was beautiful, Desiree, outstripping anything I’d ever imagined, even as I wanted to hate what he was doing. It was sweet, yet mysterious, exciting. It was—”

“It was a mistake,” Desiree ended for her firmly as she came to sit down on the edge of the bed, the nightrail becoming wrinkled as she clutched it tightly with both hands. “
His
mistake,
chérie
, and one he doubtless does not plan to repeat. Until the next time, and the next, and the next. Until he is drunk with desire for you, mad with wanting you. Then,
chérie
, he will ask you to become his mistress, his true love, the one true love of his life. He will make promises he has no intention of keeping. He will ask you to love him, to trust him, and to stand back, watching, as he weds that stick of a Waverley and sires his heirs on her. And then, after you have given him your heart, your love, your youth? Ah, then,
chérie
, he will leave.”

Sophie had heard all of this before, all through her childhood years, had it all explained to her by Desiree each time she had sat in her bed in Wimbledon, listening to her
maman
sobbing in the beautiful gold-and-white satin chamber down the hallway. Her
maman
would weep as if her heart were breaking, because it was. Her silly, trusting heart. Broken again and again, trampled on by men who had promised so much, taken so much, and then gone away.

Even Uncle Cesse would have disappeared, Desiree had warned Sophie, for she had caught out her good friend Constance with red-rimmed eyes only a week before Sophie’s
maman
had run off to meet with her beloved Cesse, to die with her beloved Cesse. Constance had not said that the duke was throwing her over. In fact, she had flatly denied it, said she was crying because she was happy, because she had a wonderful secret she couldn’t yet share, even with her very dearest friend. As if Desiree had believed that pack of nonsense! No, Constance had been on the verge, the very brink, of having her heart broken yet again.

And so Desiree had informed Sophie.

But this was different. Sophie was sure of it. She was not her
maman
, and Bramwell wasn’t his father, or one of the uncles. He wasn’t Caesar, turning away from his wife and to the charms of a doomed Cleopatra. He wasn’t Napoléon, giving Josephine her
congé
. He wasn’t Henry VIII, willy-nilly lopping off heads to leave him free to bed yet another woman he lusted after. He wasn’t any of the hundreds, thousands of men who made vows, made promises to wives, to young maids, to lovers—never meaning to keep either the vows or the women. He wasn’t!

“You’re wrong, Desiree,” Sophie said earnestly. “Bramwell isn’t like
Maman
’s gentlemen. He told me he and Miss Waverley will probably never marry.”

“He said that? Oh,
chérie
, now I should kill him,” Desiree ground out from between clenched teeth. “I should sneak into his chamber this very night, and I should kill him. You believed this drivel, this
canard
? They all live between their legs, even dukes! Sophie?
Think
, my dear, befuddled darling. Think! When did the duke kiss you? Before he told you he and Miss Waverley would probably not marry? Or after?”

“It was, it was
after
.” Sophie pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, considering the scene, replaying all the words and actions in her head. She took what she knew, combined it with everything Desiree had taught her, and felt an icy coldness invade her every blood cell.

“What a fool I am!” she exclaimed, taking hold of Desiree’s outstretched hands. “He made me feel sorry for him, gave me reason to believe that I was the cause of everything—and yet not an unhappy cause. He warned me not to think, and I didn’t! I let him kiss me, confuse me, make a fool of me, make me want to believe—ah, Desiree. Thank God I had the good sense to finally run away, yes?”

Desiree squeezed her hands. “And why,
chérie
? Why did you run away?”

Sophie looked down at her hands, seeing that her knuckles were white as they held tight to Desiree’s fingers. “I don’t know,” she said quietly, honestly. “I didn’t want to, not really. I—I suppose I was frightened? Yes, I was frightened. Frightened that I wanted so much for him to kiss me again, touch me more and more. Make love to me, I suppose. So I threw the teapot at him.” She shook her head. “Perhaps a few other things as well? I can’t remember. And—and I kicked him.”

She peered up at Desiree. “I was horrid, Desiree, as horrid as I’ve ever been in my entire life. And he said he liked me that way. That he might even
love
me that way. It was all so confusing, but wonderful in some crazy, inexplicable way.”

“Oh, this is a smooth one, my love,” Desiree told her, gathering her close. “And yet, not without possibilities, if you were your
maman
, willing to risk her heart again and again. But you are not,
chérie
. Remember that. You are
not
your
maman
. I raised you for more than diamonds, and trinkets, and fleeting moments of happiness bound to be crushed under the weight of tears. I pray, yes, that there is such a thing as true, lasting love, even though I have never myself seen such a thing. I pray that you will be one of the lucky ones who finds it. You deserve a real, lasting love. But I raised you to use your head,
chérie
. Losing your heart to a man betrothed to another is not using your head. It is entirely another part of your anatomy that comes into play at such times. And the timing, it must be impeccable,
oui
?”

“The timing?” Sophie didn’t understand, and said as much.

Desiree kissed her on both cheeks. “I’ve said too much for so late in the evening. Leave that to me,
chérie
. Have I ever turned your steps in the wrong direction? Just leave everything to Desiree, and keep smiling, keep dazzling, continue to be your most lovable self. Pretend, when you see His Grace, that this evening never happened,
oui
? I want, just this once, to be proven wrong,
chérie
. Just this one time before I die. Nothing is impossible,
oui
?”

“Desiree? Are you saying that it might be possible? That there is such a thing as true love outside of poetry? Are you saying that what I’m feeling for Bramwell could be love—and that he could be falling in love with me?”

“I’m saying,
ma petite
, that, for now, you should keep your eyes open and your legs closed. I cannot be any more plain than that, can I?”

Sophie blushed as she hid her face against Desiree’s ample bosom. She’d read her mother’s very frank, descriptive journals without really understanding much of them, but while still learning much more than an innocent young girl probably should know. She’d listened to Desiree’s explanations of lust, of desire, of this mysterious attraction between men and women that had caused endless trouble and heartache since the beginnings of time.

Empires had toppled, armies had been launched, murder had been done, good names ruined, lives destroyed—all for this thing women called love and men knew as desire. Lust. But, whatever its name, this most basic of communication between the sexes was dangerous. History had proven it. Her
maman
had suffered its consequences. And Sophie had grown up wanting no part of it.

And yet? And yet?

She heard Desiree telling her to climb down from the bed before her gown was ruined, and she complied. She allowed herself to be stripped of her garments, her hose, her evening slippers. She lifted her arms and let the nightrail fall over her curiously aware body. She dutifully splashed water on her face and watched herself in the small mirror above the washstand as she scrubbed at her teeth, spat into the basin. She ascended the small steps to her bed once more and accepted Desiree’s kisses on her cheeks as the woman tucked the covers around her, clucking like a hen over her one chick.

And then, at last, she was alone. Alone with her thoughts, her memories, her questions.

With only her bedside candle and the soft glow from a small, banked fire to light the room, she lay with her eyes open, staring up at the canopy above her head. She relived those strange, enlightening, frighteningly wonderful moments in the drawing room. She touched her fingertips to her mouth, feeling her lips grow rigid, begin to tremble.

She slid her hands under the coverlet and skimmed them over her body, fleetingly touching the breasts Bramwell had touched, brought to life. She ran her hands lightly down over her belly, stopping just before she arrived at the place that had become warm and fluid the first moment Bramwell had looked deeply into her eyes and told her not to think.

So, this was desire? Desiree had hinted at all of it, while saying next to nothing. Sophie hadn’t understood at the time she’d listened to her lessons. Now she understood why she hadn’t been able to understand.

Because the words were not the feelings. Understanding the method was not the same as experiencing the desire firsthand. Learning how to entice, to interest, to dazzle, had absolutely nothing to do with protecting her heart from becoming enticed, interested, and dazzled in return.

So, yes, this was desire. And the longings, Sophie knew now, were far more powerful than the years of warnings.

This was what had toppled all those governments, taken the heads from so many queens, led to all those intrigues, been the downfall of so many, including her own
maman
.

It was powerful stuff.

But it wasn’t love. Not according to Desiree.

It wasn’t forever. Not according to the uncles.

And it didn’t come without its costs. Lust, desire, love—no matter what name it was given, it was never given freely. There was always a price to pay. Always the fear of an ending.

Sophie knew she had to remember that. She had to remember that Bramwell was betrothed, no matter what he hinted to the contrary, no matter that he had kissed her, held her, said that he might love her. Desire her or not, the Bramwell Seaton she believed she knew would never willingly open himself up to the gossip, the ridicule that would most certainly come if he were to actually marry the Widow Winstead’s daughter, the daughter of the woman his father had set up as his mistress.

If he were to
marry
her? Was she mad? Did it take no more than a few fleeting moments of passion to stand all of her common sense on its head?

Oh, and how her head did ache. How her heart ached as well.

It had all seemed so simple at the beginning. She would come to London. She would have a most delightful Season. She would meet interesting people and make friends with the world. She would marry for convenience, as most everyone did, have the children she longed for, and begin a life of laughter, of gaiety, of enjoyment. There would be a lovely house in the country, a mansion in London. Parties. The theater. Dancing. If she felt desire, which she doubted she ever would, she would indulge that feeling, keeping her heart safe as she did so. Never to be hurt. Never to cry.

And there was nothing wrong with any of that. Men did it. They did it all the time, probably since the very
beginning
of time. But, then, men didn’t love, did they? They didn’t gaze into a woman’s eyes, pledge undying love and devotion, and really mean it. Not according to history, or the uncles, or her
maman
’s journals or, most especially, Desiree.

Tonight Bramwell had contradicted everything Sophie believed, everything she’d been taught. Why? Because he loved her? Or because he needed her to believe in love so that he could take what he wanted? Could she believe what he said, after so many years of believing the opposite? Could she trust him? Could she trust herself?

She had to keep remembering, keep reminding herself. Only fools believed in love. Fools, and poets, and young, silly, romantic females.

And yet, and yet... even Desiree, that most practical of women, had just tonight hinted that she still longed to believe in the promise, the miracle, of real love.

And so do I
, Sophie thought sadly, turning her head into the pillow and willing herself to sleep as the bedside candle sputtered and died.
Oh, so do I.