The Rake Enraptured (24 page)

"I beg your pardon, but if there are an unknown number of people watching you, and making comment, and informing their friends of what you did, then it is dirty."

"Such a prude."

"No." He breathed into her neck. "And no, I'm not. It is only that making love to you is a drink of clean, clear water and when there are other people involved, there are complications and complexity and consequences. I like it to be only us. I like the simple goodness of it. It feels so right. I don't want to take you on a little tour of minor degradation so you can realize I'm right and wish a dozen things not done. Human sexuality can be ruined with the wrong experiences. I refuse to do it to you." 

"So eloquent." She shifted a little in reminder of their position. "It's a wonder you can think straight."

"This is important," he said. "Don't distract me. I- ah. Love, if you- ah."

"Pardon?"

"I can't- Oh, never mind." He lifted her, then pulled her back down, with her willing cooperation, tilting his own pelvis to set up a relentless grind. She began to buck on him, feverishly hot, unable to move as she wanted, to feel his skin against hers. His hands were ruthless on her hips as if their experience at the Harlows' house had stripped away some veneer of civilization. He used her selfishly and she liked it, liked his hasty lack of control that reminded her of their first night together. Uncalculating and fervent, swept away from rational thought by his lust for her. Yes, she liked it. She urged him on, tried to help, kissed him when he turned his face to her. He put his hand underneath her and added his fingers to work on her, pushing her higher and higher on sensation until she soared, wild, torrid and unrefined, a rake's lightskirt in a carriage, gasping and clutching at him as he poured himself into her, shaking and swearing under his breath.

CHAPTER THIRTY-T
HREE

In the cool, faint morning light he looked so blameless, asleep on the pure white sheets. One would think it must be she who had led this sweet angel to fall. But instead she had joined him. She was so confused. To stand in that house as she had, see what she had seen, felt like a corrupt act. Had it not dirtied her?

But he had made sense in that place. It was part of him. But not all of him. He was more than that too. She slid out from under the cover
s and put her feet on the floor, careful not to wake him. She could not face him in that moment.

Who was she? She no longer knew. In daytime's clear night, the events of the darkness were half a dream. Her actions made no sense to her in the context of th
e person she knew herself to be. She was not lenient about sex. She did not exhibit her private self to others. She did not let her dignity lapse.

Yet there had been no question in her mind it was right to do so. In that moment she had acted, and it all ma
de sense to her then. In the dimness of that place, where anything was acceptable, it all made sense as long as it was the two of them.

What was she becoming?

She stole down the corridor to her own unused bedroom, naked in the silent hallway and feeling she must be invisible as a ghost. Not herself and not someone else either, insubstantial and lost. She dressed simply, quickly, in a warm walking dress, her hair a brisk knot shoved up inside a bonnet. She put on half-boots and a fur-lined cape and let herself out of the house.

The foggy air was dank and unwelcoming, poking chill fingers down her neck. She put her hood up and hurried on, finding her way without difficulty. She had gone
this way frequently since she had returned to London.

The city was awake o
f course. Away from the quiet residential streets wagons rumbled into the great beating heart of the city, carrying sustenance. Oxen lowed and whips and shouts sang out on the main thoroughfares. She passed them by, walked around the edge of the park and on to an unfashionable neighborhood, where the houses were modest and a little tired, stone faces all the same. And here it was, tidy and unimposing. The house she had grown up in, once Maman and Papa were gone. The closest thing she had to a home.

She knoc
ked on the door.

A moment later it was opened and a reddened face peered out cautiously, breaking instantly into a smile at the sight of her.

"Hello Mary."

"Lord a mussy, it's you, so it is. Come in, my poppet. Come in, come in and warm yourself. It's a de
ath of cold you'll get out here and you stand about. Come in. Eh, but that's a fine coat you have on, and me with my fingers all a flour. Just you put it down here and snug up by the fire. Your granddam's not awake yet, but soon, I'll warrant. Look at you my pet, splendid and shiny. It warms my heart, it does. Where have you sprung from?"

"Just from home. I wanted to talk to Grandmere. Mary, I'm sorry I did not invite you both to the wedding breakfast, or send you notice."

"As if I'd have come. A course not. I know my place. Though we'd have liked to know, as it went on. But there's no time, when you're young. No time to wait for two old women. All in haste and mind there's no repenting. Mind you be happy and then all's forgiven."

Julia sank into the chair b
y the fire and looked around the small kitchen. It was cozy and bright in the light of the fire and not one but an extravagant three tallow candles. Her Grandmere had put to use the money she had sent, a full half of her monthly allowance. Colin had given her far more than she could spend in so little time as a month. "I'm trying, Mary. It's harder than I expected."

"New things often are. Don't fret, poppet. Your granddam will wake soon and then we'll be all a hullaballoo to see you. I'd best get a kettle t
o boil. There's new tea leaves too. You'll like some of them, I'll warrant. Nice and fresh."

"And she's well?"

"She's had a mite of a cough this past week, but not much to speak of. Other than that she's herself and all. Will you have some bread? I've taken it out of the oven just this second and it's fresh as a frog."

"I'd love some, thank you."

"That's my wee girl. There you go. Eat up, eat up." Mary bustled about to take a crock of butter and another of marmalade from a cupboard and put it before her with two generous slices of bread, on the old cracked plate with roses on it that had been hers since childhood, kept here for her snacks in the kitchen. No pretense of gentility here, though a faded sort of grandeur still ruled above stairs, threadbare but proud. The years had whittled Grandmere's portion down to almost nothing. It brought Julia great pleasure to know she could prop it up with more than just a share from her meager salary as a governess.

It was comforting to sit her in the familiar room and
listen to the snap and crackle of the fire and pretend she was a girl once more and had no troubles to speak of. Here there was unquestioning love and a place she knew well, even if she had long outgrown it. She drank her tea and ate her bread, watched Mary mix a batch of scones and bake them in an cast iron pot in the coals, and felt calm steal through her, a centering of self.

Mary hung another pot of water over the fire, and measured in a portion of oats. She spoke of the market, and what the mutton she
bought yesterday had cost, and how many meals it would furnish. She peered out of the wavy glass in the window and muttered about the fog, and how the chill damp was not good for an old woman's bones, nor hers either, and Julia hid a smile to think in Mary's mind Grandmere was the old woman and herself still much younger, the girl who had spent her life in service to the emigrant comtesse. Nearly thirty years for Grandmere in a foreign land she had made her own, fleeing
Madame Guillotine
with husband and a daughter almost full grown.

When the bell rang in the corner it made them both jump.

"I'll take the tray up," said Julia, setting her empty teacup to one side. Together they assembled bread, scones, tea and spreads.

"Porridge ain't ready yet. Almost, but
not quite," muttered Mary regretfully.

"I'll come back for it in a few minutes."

"No, no you stay and chat. I'll bring it up. Never you mind."

Julia steadied the tray and sidled carefully through the narrow doorway. It was a different world away from the c
ozy kitchen, with the pervasive damp and a faint odor of mustiness and mice. Julia could not imagine any bedmate of Grandmere's visited her here. Oh, uncharitable thought. Once again she felt the discomfort of her fresh understanding of the world. If Colin had noticed the decay when they visited, he had not said anything of it.

It took concentration to climb the stairs with a laden tray and a long skirt, and she went slowly, wishing she had thought to put her cape back on before leaving the warmth of the ki
tchen. Never mind. She would build up a good fire in Grandmere's room.

The bed curtains were still drawn against the chill. Grandmere must have made a swift trip from there to the bellpull and back again to her warm nest. Julia smiled and went about her hu
mble tasks as readily as any servant, setting down the tray, then lighting the fire laid ready, with the flint from the mantel. She knelt on the floor and carefully breathed on the tinder until the smoldering sparks caught with a rustle and sigh, then pushed it into place with the poker.

"Is it a dreadful day, Mary? It feels dreadful."

"Not so bad as all that, Grandmere. A little foggy, but nothing to fret over," said Julia, slipping easily into French.

"Julia! Child, it is you! Push back the curtains, dear
. Oh what a delight. Come here. Come here and hold my hands. Oh no, I can't see you. Open the curtains first and let the light in. What are you doing creeping out of bed this early? You should be all tucked up safe and asleep." The woman's face was creased like delicate tissue by her delighted smile, her hands outstretched. Julia came and took them and sat next to her on the bed, a smell of old roses and French talcum powder rising up to her nose.

"I'm happy to see you too, Grandmere." She leaned forward an
d laid a kiss on the soft cheek the woman offered her. "I should come more often. It's been a difficult week."

"Has it? I thought we had done such good work, you and I, with your clothes and the Countess and Almacks. Has something happened? I haven't heard
. . ."

"No, nothing like that."

"Tell me."

"I should visit you every day. It is good to be here-"

"But there's much more to do about the town. We will find the time. Don't fret. You are still finding your feet here."

"I have been dreadfully neglectful. It
won't happen again."

"Oh, I expect it will. You're a wife now, with responsibilities and a household to run. You won't have time for me-"

"Grandmere, it won't happen again. I promise. I have been- Well, it is only that I-"

"Has something happened? What is
it? Only tell me and I will make it right, dear. Is it that new husband of yours? You did marry him very quickly."

"It is not that. Or at least, not precisely that. Or more, that is not the crux of- Oh, how do I explain it?"

"Tell me everything."

"This ti
me I do not think I can. Everything is a great deal, and not all of it fit for your ears."

"Everything!" commanded her grandmother imperiously.

Julia smiled wistfully for the days when the woman's certainties could banish all a little girl's doubts, and told her an edited version of events. But the Comtesse was no fool, and perfectly capable of drawing full sustenance from such a stew.

"He's a scoundrel, but a charming one, and he loves you I think. Naturally I approve him for that. He's no fool. But rememb
er I have heard of him, and learned a great deal more of him once I made it my business to find it out. He has been immoderate."

"Not as much as some,"
Julia defended him. "From what has been said to me, I think he was affected by the war. It changed him somehow, and after that he was not careful with himself, with his spirit. Do you know what I mean?"

"Perfectly. So do you doubt he'll be faithful?"

"I did, but I don't think it anymore. I saw something that changed my mind. He refused a very beautiful woman. He did not know I was watching. She- I could tell she- She knew him well-"

"Past lovers. They are the very devil," sighed the Comtesse.

"Yes, so he had certainly found her attractive before. But he refused her and I really don't think he was tempted at all."

"Then it was good that you saw that. The doubt can eat you alive. It did you poor Maman. There was nothing your Papa could say to make her believe in him. Finally he gave up trying."

"But he was unfaithful first. I remember. That's why she did not trust him."

"No, not at first. I would have shot him myself. But no. It was she who had no trust."

"It wasn't her fault-"

"Oh child, marriage is a complex thing, and once it becomes sour, two who once loved each other more than the world can eat each other al
ive, for there is no escape but death. There is no point in laying blame. Each of them was at fault. She accused him and hounded him and shut him out until he turned from her to another. Then her fears became real. If she had only trusted him they might have been happy until the end of their days together. I do not know. But trust is important. If he has given you that, it is a true gift."

"But I don't know who I am with him. I don't know who I am becoming."

"How so?"

"I have always seen things so clearly.
The path has always been easy. Right from wrong. Sin from righteousness. He makes me question everything. He- He changes me."

"That sounds ideal."

"But you don't know the things I have done with him-"

"Did you enjoy them?"

"Pardon me?"

"Did you do them aga
inst your will?"

"I- No."

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

"Yes."

"Did you harm yourself, or someone else?"

"No, of course not."

"Then where is the problem?"

"I just- I don't- It is not natural, Grandmere. It is not right, to enjoy such things. It is against God-
"

"Ah, child. Rules are the creation of man. We think up a thousand little rules and we write them down and then we go around telling people they must obey them. Do you think if God wanted us to be a certain way He could have simply made us like that?" Jul
ia blinked in confusion, and frowned at the Comtesse. "Do you imagine an all-powerful deity cannot manage to make his creations exactly the way He pleases? Do you think our human natures are not perfect in His sight, as he created them? A thousand different varieties of love, complex and wonderful?"