A Duke Stripped Bare
by Felicia Greene
They had forgotten to carry the three. Catherine Wentford, surrounded by stacks of messily scrawled papers, shook her head quietly as she arranged the accounts of the Cappadene Club into clear, if hasty, order.
Outside the firmly-shut door of the candlelit study, a lush array of feminine giggles and masculine grunts suggested the occupants of the other rooms were not, under any circumstances, focused on mathematics.
Catherine knew she needed to be hasty. A lady of her position shouldn’t be worrying herself with mathematics, and she certainly shouldn’t be doing mathematics for money. She could already imagine the ton’s questions--why did the Wentfords need money, what on earth could have happened to them, sending their only daughter into something that smacked horribly of trade…
And as for why she was doing mathematics in a notorious brothel?
‘Oh, Lord.’ Catherine murmured quietly to herself as she herded another few recalcitrant numbers into their correct places. ‘I am going to be thrown into the Serpentine.’
Perhaps being thrown into the Serpentine would be a relief. It would mean not having to conceal the dreadful, brute truth of the Wentfords’ current state; her father had lost a great deal of money on unwise speculation. So much money, all at once, that Catherine had been made suddenly and horribly aware of how paper-thin the contours of her luxurious life had become.
The Wentfords had servants that needed paying. Grocers, butchers and fishmongers that were threatening to collect outside the door of their smart Welland Street townhouse, and cause a scene.
The Wentfords needed money. Immediate money, that could be used to pay off the lower orders while Sir William Wentford, still in the beautifully embroidered jackets that he had refused to pawn, wrote increasingly desperate letters to friends and creditors. Sir William could not be seen dirtying his hands in trade; he was a baronet, after all, and even the lowest rung of aristocracy was leagues away from common fold. His wife, Catherine’s sweet, smiling mother, could no more recieve money for labour than she could fly to the moon…
… But Catherine? Their shy, sweet daughter, so anonymous in every ballroom, already displaying an uncommon talent for logic and numbers that frightened the servants? Their entirely forgettable daughter, soon to marry whichever gentlemen seemed solid, agreeable, financially stable…
She could do a little financial work. Everyone had books that needed keeping. Those same grocers, butchers and fishmongers, formerly so very angry, were more than happy to give their disordered piles of scrawled accounts to the dark-haired, silent Wentford daughter. Any urge to spread gossip was neatly curtailed by the girl’s frightening accuracy--not to mention the receipts she returned, helpfully detailing all the ways they had undersold, oversold or otherwise swindled both customers and suppliers out of the money
that was rightfully owed. The grocers knew haberdashers, who knew cobblers, who knew jewellers, who knew any number of artisans, traders and journeymen who treated numbers with hostility, as something to be feared, rather than the neat and elegant paradise that Caroline Wentford had always experienced in their company. Through a complex, half-whispered chain of whispered references and sly allusions to a certain organisation that was in desperate need of accounting help, and willing to pay a tremendous amount-enough to keep the Wentford carriage out of hock for another six months, at least--Catherine had found herself at the tradesman’s entrance to the Cappadene Club. Looking up at the elegant façade of the building, complete with Doric columns and freshly-clipped hedges, she had wondered vaguely as to the purpose of the establishment before being hurried in by a harried-looking man with a moustache.
Here she was. Here for the third night, in fact; there had been some confusion in the previous months, a change of leadership, which had led to a dereliction of accounting duties and a subsequent backlog of work. At least, that was what Catherine assumed. Arthur Weeks, the moustachioed man who had shown her where the ledgers were kept, lacked the aristocratic pedigree that would ensure the success of a place like the Cappadene Club.
Whoever had run the place in previous months had done well. Catherine had found few errors in the ledgers. Then, there came a disturbing decline in the quality of records kept.
What had happened several months ago? Catherine thought hard. The only thing she could think of was a rather unexpected marriage; that of Georgiana Gailford. She had married into a title, yes--and wasn’t there a sister? An unusual type, artistic, married to a man so shrouded in mystery that people barely knew his name.
Perhaps he had been the anonymous owner. Catherine, shrugging as she turned a page of the ledger, thought it made very little difference to someone hired to count numbers for three days.
A loud, unmistakably erotic exclamation rang through the wall. Catherine, her cheeks reddening, looked down at the new page of messily-filled columns with ferocious attention. Surely they would stop soon. She knew nothing of the act itself apart from what observing animals on a farm had taught her; a country childhood meant there was very little squeamishness when it came to animal mating, but a good deal of incomprehension when human mating rituals were involved. Catherine, who had always been more comfortable with a page of equations than anything approaching romance, had managed to avoid any sort of scandal since her coming out… but now, thanks to her father’s greed and her family’s general helplessness when it came to matters of the purse, she appeared to be caught in the thick of it.
A rhythmic thumping came through the wall, making the pictures rattle. Catherine stared at the wall in complete incomprehension, before realising that it had to come from a bed-board slamming into the plaster.
Well. She stared at the accounts, her cheeks so fiery that she was sure she’d burn the paper. Thatmaybeenoughforthisevening.
She couldn’t leave the room. Not now, in the midst of… well, whatever was happening in the next room. The evening had been the only convenient time to do the last of the accounts; her friend Lydia had so breathlessly begged her to walk through Hyde Park earlier that day, and Catherine had been loathe to refuse her. Leaving was impossible, working was impossible--what was a lady to do?
Catherine eyed her reticule with deep annoyance. Her mother insisted that she carry a small piece of half-done embroidery everywhere with her; gentlemen willwishto see howaccomplished you are. Catherine, not having had the heart to tell her mother that gentlemen never seemed to see her anyway, embroidering or otherwise, reached for the reticule with a heavy heart. Moving away to the desk, finding a slightly more comfortable position curled in an armchair of mustard-yellow velvet, she began
to stitch. At first the stitches were regular and industrious, but slowly dwindled away to nothing as she stared blankly at the flames.
The gentlemen in the next room had sounded as if he were… enjoying himself.
Catherine didn’t think she had ever enjoyed herself to quite such an extent. She had certainly never enjoyed herself in the same manner. Working in this particular establishment represented an opportunity, if she thought about it logically--but logic, so often her friend, left her in a blushing pile of idiocy when it came to this example.
She didn’t think enjoying oneself in such a fashion was possible, at least for herself, without the correct partner. Really, considering the current crop of gentleman the ton had produced would be unforgivably scandalous--especially if she imagined them here, in the richly-wallpapered cocoon of the Cappadene Club.
One name, one face, rose in the flames. Catherine considered for a moment, her features softening, before she shook her head with a bitter chuckle.
It certainly wouldn’t do to sit dreaming by the fire, making a piece of pattern-work that was neat but utterly uninspired, thinking of a man that she had no business at all thinking about.
She may as well think of the Prince Regent. He was about as aware of her existence as His Grace James Hildebrande, Duke of Staunton-and really, more suitable as a husband. Unfortunately, the Prince Regent didn’t make her heart sing the way James Hildebrande could. He didn’t even have to speak to her. Didn’t have to look at her. Fortunate, really, because James Hildebrande did neither.
‘Come now.’ She chided herself, focusing on her piece of patternwork so minutely that each stitch became enormously large in her mind’s eye. ‘What a useless way to spend one’s time.’
She knew that her better self was right. It was useless indeed to think of James Hildebrande. He was far too titled to consider a girl like herself, with naught but a baronet for a father. He was far too financially unstable, if rumours of his gambling and racing were anything to go by, to solve any of the Wentfords’ problems. He was
far too arrogant, rakish and incorrigibly playful to take anything seriously--this, Catherine knew, was by far the worst sin of all.
The fact that she had been secretly dreaming of him for at least six years, ever since she had seen him at the Valentine’s Ball? That was irrelevant. Catherine, feeling the old stab of unrequited passion pierce her chest, shook her head in foolish annoyance at the girl she had been.
James Hildebrande had never danced with a lady at the Valentine’s Ball. That had been shocking at first, then commonplace, then imbued with a sort of mystical, scandalous allure that had left most of the women in the ton batting their fans, smiling as winningly as possible, sometimes even pretending to bump into him in the middle of the crowded ballroom--anything, anything at all, to induce the man to dance with them.
Catherine had never been brave enough. But she had dreamed. Oh, how she had dreamed.
Dreams, alas, invariably led to nothing at all.
Muffled voices came from the corridor; confused ones. The ringing of a bell came from far away; did that mean the arrival of a new client? Catherine, shaking her head at the new world she had entered, returned to her stitches with a sigh.
She would stitch, and finish the accounts when the noise had returned to an acceptable level. Then she would return home, slipping through the tight network of alleyways that divided her family’s townhouse from the Cappadene Club, and hope--as always-that she was not assailed by ruffians during the journey.
There were rarely ruffians. Usually there were laughing couples, watchful pickpockets, and sad-eyed women congregating on the corners of the streets. Catherine, looking at the fire, brushed away the unpleasant recollections from her mind.
This was her final night at the Cappadene Club. More salubrious workplaces awaited. Money awaited, security awaited, stability and comfort and peace--all of it would be hers in time, if she worked quickly and silently enough.
And if she forgot about James Hildebrande. That would increase her peace to a tremendous extent. A pity, then, that she stood very little chance of managing it.
His Grace James Hildebrande, Duke of Staunton, had a shameful confession to make. A confession so shameful, so intimately connected to his reputation, that he had been half-willing to confess all to the maid at the Cappadene Club as he was taken through the dimly lit corridors for his appointment. His appointment with the discipline mistress. A certain type of professional woman that James had never seen, in his entire history of debauchery and really, if he were honest with himself, he was more than a little uncertain about the idea even now.
If anyone at his Club ever found out that he had never seen a discipline mistress--if he didn’t, in all good conscience, know exactly what a discipline mistress did beyond the usual flogging and other sundries--he would probably be thrown out on his coattails. Everyone knew that James Hildebrande was the most deviant, depraved duke in England, didn’t they? Oh, Lord, his reputation really was growing wings and flying away from him…
He hadn’t even meant to be here tonight. He was meant to be teaching a new, slightly younger acquaintance about the ways of the world--but Marcus Bennington, a baronet with a timid manner that James found irritating but women seemed to adore, had been swept up by a giggling, perfumed cloud of courtesans and whisked away to one of the upper rooms.
He had chosen the discipline mistress as a joke. The woman at the door, clearly harassed and somewhat out of her depth, had barely been able to locate his appointment--much less exactly what he had requested, or where he was meant to go in order to receive it. James, wondering vaguely why this particular brothel had required such a sterling reputation for service, had followed the confused swish of her skirts as she had led him through a startling number of passageways, bringing him to a large wooden door.
With a rushed curtsey, without so much as a by-your-leave, the woman left. James, staring at the door with more foreboding than was healthy, decided with an abrupt shake of his head that it was time to confront his uncertainty.
He pushed at the door. It swung open easily, revealing a scene that he hadn’t expected.
The atmosphere in the room wasn’t very disciplinary. There didn’t appear to be any riding crops in corners, or bruised men whimpering in corners. The room, in James’ decidedly inexpert opinion, resembled one of those half-forgotten places in every establishment where paperwork was thrown, never to be considered again.
Apart from the woman, of course. The slim, dark-haired woman sitting by the fire, a piece of embroidery in her lap, staring at him as if she had seen a ghost.
Had he made a mistake? James, suddenly awkward, looked back into the corridor. The woman who had escorted him here was long gone--surely she wouldn’t have brought him to a place where he wasn’t expected.
‘Forgive me.’ He smiled his usual smile; the one he had calculated to be most devastating on any woman within fifty feet. ‘You are, I assume, the discipline mistress?’
The woman was still staring at him as if he had four heads. James, raising an eyebrow, could do nothing but return her gaze. What beautiful eyes she had. Not the dark, flashing look he had expected from a discipline mistress; they were a soft blue, like cool water in the light of the flames. A strange face, too--severe in line, but softening with every moment he spent looking at her.
She still wasn’t speaking. James, beginning to feel a little disconcerted, spoke again.
‘Am I correct?’
Another long moment. It was as if the woman was deciding what to say. James, still staring, wondered why he hadn’t already walked out of the room and found someone willing to help him.
It was something about her face. It was… singular. Compelling.
Recognisable?
Had he seen her somewhere before? James took a step closer, inspecting her features with a new awareness. Perhaps some other pleasure-house, in his long and colourful history of frequenting them…
Before he could make a proper assessment, the woman nodded. A slow but definite nod, as if some sort of decision had been made. James realised he was relieved. He didn’t want to leave this room-hadn’t wanted to, not really. Now that he knew he could be here, he could relax.
He could begin, however scandalously, to enjoy himself.
‘Well, then.’ He smiled a little more scandalously; the slow grin of a lion as it pounced on prey. ‘I think you’ll find me a most unruly gentleman. I am in severe need of discipline.’
He waited for the woman to produce a riding crop, or say something cutting. To start removing her clothes, at least. Instead, with a look that James couldn’t categorise, the woman turned decisively to the fire.
She picked up her pattern-work that lay in her lap. James, bemused, watched as she began to stitch.
She appeared to be ignoring him entirely. James, moving to the overly-stuffed chaise that stood in the centre of the room, near a desk piled high with papers, felt a prickle of new awareness at the base of his spine.
When had he last been ignored by a member of the female sex? Very possibly never. Every creature in petticoats had always displayed some reaction to him, whether astonished shame or flirtatious interest, since he had inherited his title. The first woman to show indifference to him in fifteen years, give or take, was this primly-dressed little…
Light-skirt. Prostitute, if he was being exact about it. James, watching the woman placidly stitch by the fire, felt his cock stir with
no small amount of surprise.
Was thiswhat he had hungered for? No orgies, no new depravities, no lustful carnival of yielding flesh… merely a woman, dark-haired and disdainful, sewing in the firelight and barely deigning to look at him.
This, Lord knows why, was what his body and soul had needed. Perhaps the Club did deserve its reputation after all. He smiled. Now was the time to try and get the mysterious woman’s attention.
‘Would you take grave offence if I make myself a little more comfortable?’ He sat down on the chaise-longue, reaching for the collar of his shirt. ‘This room is dashed warm.’
‘I do not care what you do.’ The woman’s voice was low and soft. A thrill of recognition ran through James; he had heard that tone before, somewhere, had he not? ‘Your presence, or the lack of it, makes no difference whatsoever to my evening.’
She did not sound frightened. She sounded, if anything, determined. James, his cock stirring in his breeches, knew that every penny he had paid was more than worth it.
‘Understood.’ He pulled his shirt over his head, the warm air of the room caressing his bare chest. ‘Allow me, then, to become as comfortable as I possibly can.’
The woman didn’t even look at him. James, his heart beating slightly faster, saw her fingers trembling as she stitched.
What sort of a discipline mistress was she? There was some sort of mystery at work. Still, his rigid cock demanded more of him at this exact moment than his reason did. James, trying to place the woman’s singular face within the wider context of his social existence, began to remove his breeches with a frisson of pure mischief.
Removing his clothes had never felt quite so forbidden. Perhaps this was the singular talent of this particular discipline mistress; making normal brothel-based acts seem wickedly sinful all over again. As
James relaxed back onto the chaise-longue, the velvet caressing his skin, he watched the woman stare into the fire as he began to stroke his shaft.
‘If you turn your head, you’ll find me doing something forbidden in many other establishments.’ He paused. ‘I rather believe your purpose is to punish me for it.’
‘As I said--what you do makes very little difference to me.’
‘Forgive me, madam, but I think it will.’ James idly stroked the base of his cock, revelling in the warmth of the room. Of the way the woman sat staring at the fire, treating him as if he were little more than a nuisance. Oh, he had needed this. ‘What can I do, to convince you to turn your head?’
‘I doubt you are capable of making me turn so much as a hair.’
The cool challenge in her voice was intoxicating. James stroked his hardening cock from root to tip, thoroughly enjoying himself. ‘Madam, you tempt me.’
‘Tempt you to tease, and play, and be as insufferably arrogant as you--as you seem to be?’ The woman paused; James thought he detected a slight reddening of her cheeks. How could she have ascended to the heights of the Cappadene Club if the thought of a misbehaving man still made her blush? ‘I find myself caught in a distinct lack of temptation.’
‘And what must I do to arouse your interest? What feat of strength or flexibility?’ James put one hand behind his head, the warmth of the fire moving over every inch of his body. He had been naked in a tremendous variety of places, but this disordered study was already one of his favourites. ‘I am well-known from Dover to the Docklands for being surprising in either arena.’
‘Ask.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
The woman paused, as if considering whether to continue speaking. With a small sigh, she continued. ‘Ask. In a polite and respectful manner.’
Polite? Respectful? Where did she think they were--in the middle of a ballroom? James, irritated, became more irritated still when he realised he was growing even more erect than before. The woman really had no right to barely greet him, refuse to flatter him in the least, stare into the fire rather than stare at his unadorned magnificence--and after all that, have him more ready to tumble into bed than he had ever been before in his life.
‘Please.’ He said it before he could think better of it. ‘I would like it very much if you look at me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I wish it.’
‘That is not a good enough reason to make me do anything at all.’
The woman reached up, idly adjusting her neatly pinned hair; James bit back a sigh of longing as he stroked his cock with renewed urgency. ‘Think harder.’
‘I am as hard as can possibly be.’
‘Not--not when it comes to your reason.’ There is was again; that slight break in her composure. The signal that James, for all the annoyance he had caused her, was getting somewhere. ‘Be more articulate, and more descriptive.’
‘You asked for it.’ James furrowed his brow, arranging his phrasing as precisely as he could. ‘Please turn around, and look at me. I am without a stitch of clothing, hard as the proverbial rock, and ten minutes of you speaking to me in that bewitchingly uninterested tone will have me finishing all over your furniture. Please.’
Perhaps he had been too honest. Too vulnerable in his exact description of his needs. For a moment James held his breath, fighting an unusual sense of importance in his words and deeds. Then, with a rush of relief, the woman turned. She slowly rose from her chair. James watched her eyes widen, her hands tense in her skirts, and wondered for a moment what he had done wrong.
‘You’re awfully good at this.’ He smiled. ‘Why, you would almost believe that you had never seen a naked man before. Or that you see them so often, they have begun to irritate you.’
When the woman finally spoke, with tightly pursed lips, her voice was as cool and disdainful as ever. ‘I am looking at you. You are not permitted to judge my looks--I am permitted, however, to judge yours.’
‘I see. And if I am found wanting?’
‘I return to my pattern-work.’
‘And if I am deemed satisfactory?’ James idly played with his cock, watching the woman’s eyes dart away from his display before returning. ‘What then?’
‘You are persistent.’ The woman slowly moved closer, as if James were a tiger capable of pouncing. The shyness of her movement, combined with the studied carelessness of her voice, was an intoxicating combination. ‘An irritating quality.’
She came closer still, one small hand resting against the top of the chaise-longue as she studied him. James, uniquely excited by the power of her gaze, her ferocious attention as she studied him from head to foot, bit his lip as he studied her face in turn.
He had never looked into a woman’s eyes for this long. Certainly not a woman who worked in a pleasure-house. The more they looked at one another, the more certain he became that he had seen her somewhere before.
‘Well?’ He deliberately stared, unblinking, as he stroked his cock. He watched her eyes move to his hand; it was as if she were fascinated, but determined not to show it. ‘Do I please you?’
The woman swallowed. ‘N-not in the least.’
James’ doubts about the woman coalesced into a singular, very pressing problem.
She couldn’t possibly be a discipline mistress. Not if she began stuttering whenever she looked at a man’s private parts. As
exercised as he was, James couldn’t help but conclude that her garb and manner simply didn’t make sense.
Someone in the Cappadene Club had made a mistake. A grave one. But looking into the woman’s eyes, lust flowering so forcefully in his chest that breathing seemed optional, James decided he didn’t much care.
‘Do you wish for me to leave?’ As much as he wished to stay, he couldn’t bear the thought of forcing a terrified servant--even if if the woman didn’t look like a servant--to stay in the room purely because he was in it. Dukes were expected to plunder wherever they wished, but James had always prized himself on only having willing partners.
‘Have I been too displeasing?’
‘No.’ The word came quickly and decisively; James audibly sighed with relief as the woman leaned closer. Not close enough to touch, but closer. ‘I do not wish you to leave.’
That, at least, was clear. James, stroking his cock with a little more urgency, found the woman’s blue gaze and held it.
‘Then tell me how displeasing I am.’
The woman raised an eyebrow. ‘Was it not enough, to be told that you were irritatingly persistent?’
‘No. Not at all.’ James smiled; the woman’s mouth twitched a little at the corner. That small sign of warm was enough to send another bolt of lust through him. ‘Be detailed.’
‘And what will you do, while I give a litany of your flaws?’
James gripped his cock, biting his lip as pleasure shot through him. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think you are quite the most arrogant man in Christendom.’ The woman leaned closer still. ‘But… but I…’
‘But what?’
‘But… I like looking at you. Like this.’ The woman sounded as if her own words surprised her. ‘I like it very much.’
All James waned to do was kiss her. Reach up his free hand, stroke the stark, sculptural line of the woman’s face, and pull her mouth to
his. But he didn’t wish to frighten her--didn’t wish to shatter the strange, crystallised perfection of this moment.
‘Please keep talking to me.’ He stroked harder, pleasure building at his core to a point of near-unbearable intensity. The woman’s eyes were everything; so penetrating, so severe and tender in equal measure. ‘Even if all you do is tell me what an arrogant--ah!-bastard I am.’
‘That is not all I wish to say.’ The woman bit her lip, her eyes travelling down to James’ cock before moving back to his face. ‘Believe me.’
‘Then speak. I beg you.’ James bit his lip, wishing he could place that face. That sweet, utterly singular face. ‘I do not believe I have ever wanted anything quite as much.’
‘You are indeed arrogant.’ The woman looked at his cock with rapt, pleasing fascination. ‘But… but you are diverting. You are charming, and witty, and of an interest that is practically infinite.’ She paused, her voice gaining a hint of scandalous bravery. ‘And… and you are verypleasing to the eye.’
Brothel-workers had told James things a thousand times more craven. The mysterious woman’s words, with only a little alteration, could have been said in any drawing-room. Still, thanks to the peculiar magic of her manner, James felt the beginnings of fireworks.
‘How I would love it if you touch me.’ He spoke with pained urgency now, all pretence stripped away as ecstasy built within him. He gripped the chaise longue tightly, his other hand quickly, frantically stroking the head of his cock as his shaft grew too sensitive to touch. ‘If you touched me, and kissed me, and sat astride me. I could feel you, and kiss you, and--’
‘And I would feel the same pleasure you are feeling.’ The woman’s voice was hushed, breathless; there was a hungry, sensual tone to it that James coveted. ‘The same bliss.’
‘Oh, yes. I promise you that.’ James tried to keep her gaze, but leaned his head back as his climax tore through him. Savage,
immediate; he moaned harshly, spurting twice into his palm, the woman’s soft gasp only fuelling the power of it. ‘Again, again and-ah!--again.’
His hips bucked as he lost himself in it; the sheer pleasure of the moment, crashing over him like a waterfall. For a moment it was never-ending--this bliss, this newness, this discovery of just how good it felt… and oh, even as it ebbed away, he was left with a satisfied languor that felt leagues away from shame.
He sighed with pure contentment, the crackling of the fire moving through him as his muscles relaxed. Raising his head a little, catching a hint of the woman’s flower-water scent, he murmured with a smile.
‘I will clean myself up. I will smoke a cigar, if you have one. ‘And then, nameless temptress, we shall change roles.’
The woman sighed softly, biting her lip. ‘I do not know how--I mean, of course I know--oh, no.’
‘I rather thought you didn’t. You are no discipline mistress, and certainly no jade.’ James smiled wider, triumphant at having removed at least one layer of whatever deception held sway. ‘Reveal your true identity, if you please. I know full well that I have seen you somewhere before… and I believe we are both rather past the point of needing discipline.’
The woman opened her mouth, only to shut it again. James prepared to rise, ready to clean himself and begin anew--before stopping, hands flying to his exposed cock, as the door suddenly opened.
‘Your Grace, forgive me. There has been an unfortunate--oh!’ The woman who had directed him to the room before stood outlined in the doorway, her face the perfect picture of horror. ‘I--oh Lord, I--’
‘No mistake.’ James smiled as winningly as he could, risking a glance back at the mysterious woman. She was pressed against the opposite wall of the room, her face carefully blank. ‘And nothing hostile, either--if anything, this is all a--’
‘Mr. Weeks!’ The woman’s shriek was undeniably piercing. ‘Mr. Weeks, you must come at once!’
Over his shoulder, James heard the nameless woman’s words. ‘This is all the most terriblemisunderstanding.’
I must have died. Catherine sat silently by her bedroom window, watching the silent street, the sounds of the servants finishing the last of their tasks filling the room with a muffled series of thumps. I must havedied,somewhere beforearrivingattheCappadeneClub, andeverythingthathappenedafterwardswasbutadream.
If only. Dreams could be forgotten in daylight; one laughingly dismissed them over one’s rolls and milk. This… this was reality, in tooth and claw, and she would never forget it as long as she lived.
James Hildebrande. James Hildebrande, the most rakish duke in England, lying naked before her. So stunningly, completely naked, so unavoidablynaked, that Catherine couldn’t help but recall the image whenever she closed her eyes. The tall, broad-shouldered, muscular man, with that irrepressible smile… that golden trail of hair that led down to his--
Stop. She lifted her thumb to her mouth, beginning to bite her nail. If she began to linger on the duke’s conduct, not to mention her own, the night would become very long indeed.
Why had she felt so unencumbered? So free? As if the walls of the pleasure-house concealed her from her own life, her own troubles… as if it were a dream. A dream, where she could behave exactly as she wished without restraint. Still, she had held back. She hadn’t touched him. Even though she had wanted to touch him; wanted to run her fingers through his hair, trace his lips… run her fingers along that wicked line that led from hip to--
‘Dearest?’ Her mother’s voice; a sure antidote to even the most intoxicating recollection. ‘Are you awake?’
For a brief moment, Catherine considered feigning sleep. Then, with a guilty jolt, she remembered the money in her reticule.
‘Not yet.’ She fitfully arranged herself in her chair, picking up her pattern-work with a shiver of recognition. Now every stitch seemed somehow significant. ‘Come.’
With a soft, graceful rustle of skirts, her mother entered. Still a great beauty despite the hardening of the face that inevitably came with age, she smiled at Catherine with a faint, wistful gaze. ‘Did you enjoy the fish?’
‘Very much.’ Catherine remembered what a mess the fishmonger’s accounts had been, and attempted to smile. ‘A success.’
‘I thought so.’ Her mother paused, her smile fading a little. ‘Are you tired? Do not tell me that you are sickening for something.’
‘I am quite well.’ Catherine, smiling pleasantly back at her mother, was assailed by a horrible thought.
Are you concerned for my welfare as a mother? Or are you simply worriedthatifIamsick,Icannotwork?
The thought sent a chill through her. Looking down at her pattern work, the colours briefly swimming in front of her eyes, Catherine made a strong, deliberate stitch.
‘You must sleep, dear, if you are ailing.’ Her mother’s voice wavered a little, as if she were unsure of her own advice. ‘Rest, and drink the rosemary tea that Abigail makes you.’
‘I will, Mother.’
‘And I shall tell Cook that you enjoyed the fish. We shall have it again in the same fashion, next week.’
Catherine nodded, turning to face the window. ‘I am glad of it.’
This had become a small, shameful ritual. Her mother would enter Catherine’s bedroom on some pretext, speaking of the weather, of an upcoming dance, of the Cook’s stubborness--and leave some time afterward, the notes and coins from Catherine’s reticule clutched in her fists, as Catherine looked out of the window.
It was humiliating. It was enraging. Catherine, watching her mother walk away, decided that for tonight, at least, there was simply not enough space in her head to treat the two pieces of misery with the same importance.
It would have to be His Grace, tonight. The failings of her parents could wait. Where had her thoughts been, before her mother had interrupted her?
That golden trail of hair . Her cheeks reddened at the thought. Perhapswecanglossoverthatpart.
Once the maid had begun screaming, everything had happened very suddenly indeed. For a horrible few moments, Catherine had feared Mr. Weeks would set upon His Grace. The man had entered the room, looked at James Hildebrande without a stitch of clothing, looked at Catherine, and had begun to roll up his sleeves--until Catherine raising her hands, had started speaking.
Lord knows what she had said. She couldn’t remember a single fullyformed phrase; the word misunderstanding had featured heavily. She appeared to have made clear the two most important points-James Hildebrande had not forced himself upon her, and neither had she beckoned the man into the room for an illicit encounter.
Well. She hadn’t beckoned him. But she hadn’t stopped him, either… and it certainly hadn’t been because she was too afraid to ask.
Thank goodness the encounter had happened in a pleasure-house. Discretion was their watchword. Once Arthur Weeks had been convinced that James Hildebrande had done nothing to force his attentions upon her, the matter had been resolved with silent, swift efficiency.
Catherine’s work had been reviewed. She had been paid her money-paid more money than she had been expecting. When she had attempted to question the disparity, Arthur Weeks had simply bowed with a grave look.
‘Forgive us.’ He had spoken quietly. ‘We beg of you. That man will never darken our door again.’
‘No. Please. As I have said--it was not his fault. It was no-one’s fault.’ Catherine had paused. ‘And from what I have seen in the last three months of outgoings, you are in grave need of important clients.’
She had been audacious. Arthur Weeks had said nothing, beyond a slightly grim nod. And that, it appeared, was that.
She wished she could feel as if anything was finished. Catherine, studying the moon, sighed.
She would have to consider the matter logically. Logic was her friend. It had indeed been the most dreadful misunderstanding. James Hildebrande was debauched, yes--but he was, at heart, decent. He had never spread rumours about the many women he favoured; she did not feel apprehension on that score. If they saw one another in public, well--she could simply pretend not to recognise him, and he her.
And if they saw one another in private?
Such a thing would never occur again. It hadn’t happened over the preceding six years. Catherine, with a reluctant twist of her mouth, decided that the chances of such a moment happening twice were near impossible.
There. The matter had been neatly tidied away, like a blanket being folded into a chest. She need never think of it again, if she so chose.
Never again. She closed her eyes, remembering James’ smile. The urgent, animal movement of his hips; the fire that had spread through her extremities, making her thirsty. Desperate. Never, ever again.
As Catherine looked pensively out at the stars, James paced wearily through the study of his palatial townhouse. Johnson, a young valet with an old manner, looked at his master quizzically as James walked back and forth.
‘Your Grace.’ He could contain his curiosity no longer. ‘What on earth has happened to you?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ James looked out of the window at the full moon, sighing irritably. ‘I believe I have fallen in love.’
‘... Ah.’ Johnson’s face blanched. ‘I do not believe have ever heard such words pass your lips, Your Grace. Are you quite well?’
‘Lord knows.’ James closed his eyes, envisioning the woman’s face once more. He had seenher somewhere before; he knew it. A ball, a tea-garden, a play--where had it been? Not just her face, her voice; cool, articulate, faintly mocking…
He knew her. Not well, but he knew her. They would have acquaintances in common, perhaps even friends--if he began tracing her in earnest, if he went back to the Club--
‘Shall I bring you some coffee, Your Grace? Some warm milk?’
‘Brandy. A very large, very expensive bottle.’ James stared at his valet, sighing. ‘I am going to wallow, tonight. I will need sufficient liquid to do so.’
Hyde Park was predictably, sunnily beautiful. As couples walked demurely side by side, eagle-eyed chaperones watching each party for signs of unacceptable romanticism, Catherine ate daintily-cut sandwiches with Lydia Holt.
Lydia was the best sort of friend to have for a lady in the midst of financial instability. Florid, rounded and expansive, fond of gay colours and wittily devastating the overtures of lesser men, Miss Holt was rich in both money and friends--and tolerance. She had offered money to Catherine as soon as she had learned of the Wentford difficulties, but had not persisted in the face of Catherine’s refusals-instead, she had simply paid of every one of their shared outings ever since the unfortunate speculation. Quite why she had taken such a liking to Catherine had always been something of a mystery-not least to Catherine herself. Perhaps Lydia believed she had hidden depths.
She did have hidden depths. If she considered her evening at the Cappadene Club logically. Depths that even she herself had never expected. Such strong embarrassment, such shame, had turned to
curiosity… curiosity that became pleasure, of a peculiarly intense and lasting kind.
He hadn’t recognised her, at any rate. At that point, she had nothing left to lose.
Depths indeed. Depths that she was trying, however obliquely, to communicate to Lydia as they sat eating cucumber sandwiches in the tea pavilion. Sandwiches that Lydia had always paid for, shooing away Catherine’s proffered purse with the practiced manner of a woman born to money.
Why on earth had Lydia decided to wed? Catherine, haltingly reporting the barest particulars of the Cappadene Club, knew that if she had Lydia Holt’s circumstances she would consider marriage optional, rather than necessary. But Lydia, having placidly accepted the proposal of the Earl of Winchester--a man that Catherine privately considered mediocre in every respect apart from his fortune--had neatly avoided all questions about the marriage that Catherine had put forward.
Some things were mysteries that even friendship couldn’t navigate. Catherine, reaching the point in the narrative where euphemism could no longer suffice, lowered her voice.
‘And then… well. I do not believe I can safely tell what happened next.’
‘Catherine.’ Lydia looked at her, eyes wide, a sandwich hanging limply from her fingers. ‘If you are about to relate something even more scandalous than what has already occurred during this conversation, I insist that you wait until I have something appropriate in my glass to toast such a momentous occasion.’
Catherine rolled her eyes, secretly glad that her friend was being as predictably exaggerated as she had expected. Not that there was much need for exaggeration--her whispered account of what had taken place at the Cappadene Club, with only certain particulars excluded from the narrative, had almost made her friend scream aloud as a group of gossiping dowagers had passed.
She had, of course, neglected to mention a certain detail. A detail of such sordid, thrilling enormity that Catherine was sure, quite sure, of Lydia either exclaiming aloud or swooning onto the floor of the Marlborough tea gardens.
‘Well?’ Lydia paused theatrically as a group of laughing children ran by, one with a dog on a string. ‘Are you to tell me, or will I be forced to passionately implore you to reveal your secrets at the bowling green, or in the middle of the skittle grounds?’
The gentleman…’ Catherine’s voice wavered, but she forced herself to continue. She could not bear the tremendous burden alone. ‘The gentleman in question has a name, and title. Both of which are somewhat--’
‘Scandalous?’ A soft, dreaming light had appeared in Lydia’s eyes. ‘Oh, Lord. You must allow me to guess.’
‘I fear I cannot prevent you.’
‘Your wisdom ensures the steady flourishing of our friendship.’ Lydia smiled. ‘Goodness. Westmorland?’
‘No.’ Catherine shuddered at the thought of the scowling earl. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘Thank goodness. I was so terribly afraid of having to imagine him in some sort of compromising--’
‘Lydia! Someone will hear you!’
‘You are well-known to be in love with numbers, to the exclusion of all else, and I am to be married.’ A flicker of what looked to be sorrow rose, then died in Lydia’s eyes. ‘No-one will be listening to us. If not Westmorland, then… Barrow?’
‘No.’
‘Haddonfield?’
‘No.’ Catherine leaned forward, lowering her voice a little. ‘Someone… someone infamous for not performing a certain act.’
‘And to think you were telling meto lower my voice!’
‘No. Not--not that.’ Catherine frowned, trying to be patient. ‘Think.’
Lydia thought. Catherine waited, watching her friend closely, until she saw shocked understanding dawn on Lydia’s face.
‘You cannotmean--’
‘Yes. Him. Unmistakeably so.’ Catherine found herself trembling at the memory. ‘James Hildebrande.’
‘He who never dances? Who never looks at a woman in a ballroom! And he--he pressed his attentions upon you!’ Lydia threw her sandwich onto her plate, gripping Catherine by the shoulders with nary a thought for passing onlookers. ‘Oh, Catherine! A duke!’
‘A duke who believes me to be a--’
‘Well. Yes.’ Lydia paused. ‘But you disabused him of that notion, I imagine.’
Catherine paused, wondering how on earth she could lie. Alas, her pause was too long for Lydia to be taken in by any words that followed.
‘Oh. I see.’
‘You do not see. You do not see at all.’ Catherine lowered her voice further, terrified that someone would overhear. ‘I was shocked, and frightened, and he seemed so terribly sure of himself, and so I--’
‘And so you simply never told him that you were there for your bookkeeping skills.’ Lydia’s mouth hung open; Catherine fought a strange, treacherous thrill of vanity at suddenly being so very important. ‘Which suggests, my dear, that other skills were more evident at that precise moment.’
‘You are making it out to be considerably more than it was.’
Catherine swallowed, not believing her own words. ‘Considerably more. He--he never touched me.’
‘Oh, my.’ Lydia looked as if all her Christmases had come at once.
‘For some reason, that makes it all the more delightfully wicked.’
‘It is decidedly not delightful. Not in the slightest. It is--it is a problem. One that I cannot solve.’ Catherine took a deep breath, wishing not for the first time that life could be as elegantly clear as a simple mathematical formula. ‘He did not recognise me, Lydia, but
he knew that he had seen me before. Seen me outside of that--that place.’ She paused, looking at her friend, hoping that Lydia would understand the grave import of what she was saying. ‘You know I must make a good marriage. You know that this--this terrible period of my life must end. And I will be cast away from every certainty, every hope of stability, if I am ever associated with such a place.’
‘My dear, for such a probing analytical mind, you fail to see the obvious solution to such a problem.’ Lydia smiled, her eyes bright. ‘It appears the perfect marriage opportunity has fallen into your lap!’
‘Only for those who thrive on scandal, such as yourself.’ Catherine tried to look disapproving, but failed in the face of Lydia’s goodhumoured mischief. ‘Quite apart from the manner of our meeting, and the character of it… James Hildebrande is hardly a man of good character.’
‘He is a man of many pleasures, none of them sanctioned by the ton.’ Lydia shrugged. ‘Hardly the greatest sin.’
‘But hardly ideal. Certainly not preferable.’ Catherine sighed. ‘I know barely anything about His Grace.’
‘That is not true either. You know a great deal about the man. Much more than the vast majority of maids know about their husbands-tobe.’ Lydia nodded sagely. ‘For one, you know his worst qualities.’
‘Knowledge of one another’s worst qualities is not a good basis for a marriage.’
‘I believe you would be surprised.’ Lydia paused. ‘You know more than you think. Given your fondness for him--’
‘I never said I was fond of him.’
‘Catherine. If any other gentleman had found you in a pleasurehouse, you would have done anything short of murder to extricate yourself from the situation. There is no need to conceal your fondness.’ Lydia smiled. ‘And you did always look so terribly disappointed when he did not ask you to dance at the Valentine’s Ball.’
‘He never dances with anyone at the Valentine’s Ball.’
‘Yes. And you have always been angrier about that fact than I have.’
Lydia chuckled; Catherine found herself smiling despite her sadness.
‘His lack of dancing aside, his pleasures are well-known. The ton is always speaking of the new coffee-house he patronises, or the milliner he favours. His every political opinion is written in every newspaper as soon as it falls from his lips.’
‘He was most eloquent when it came to the problem of the machinebreakers.’ Catherine spoke pensively, remembering the many scandal-sheet articles she had read alone, poring over any paragraphs that mentioned the Duke of Staunton. ‘And he wrote a most moving letter to The Sentinel when stray dogs had begun to terrorise the Covent Garden poor.’
Lydia’s smile bordered on smug. ‘I see you have researched His Grace extensively.’
‘And so? Even if I am aware of his politics, his concerns, his habits, his preferences, he knows nothing of mine.’
‘He is aware of your preference for him, I imagine.’
‘I sincerely hope not.’ Catherine’s cheeks reddened as she looked down. ‘I sincerely hope that I never see him again.’
‘You are an honest woman, Catherine, but I doubt your honesty in this. I believe you are frightened of seeing him again, which is different from simply choosing not to see him.’ Lydia gently released her hand, picking up her sandwich and taking a dainty bite. ‘But I see we shall reach no great discoveries today. This will take time.’
‘Not if I simply never see him again.’
‘You are not a scullery maid. You are, as far as the ton is concerned, still a gently-bred woman who does not engage in any sort of trade.’
Lydia put the words so delicately that Catherine barely felt a sting of shame. ‘I highly doubt that you will be able to avoid sharing the same parts of London for very long.’
‘I shall do my best.’ Catherine stared primly at her uneaten sandwich. ‘You may rely upon it.’
‘Well… if you are so very determined to forget such an astonishing encounter, my dearest Catherine, I can do nothing but aid you in your quest.’ Lydia adjusted her bonnet, arranging a yellow ribbon so that it was a little more visible. ‘We shall go to Vauxhall Gardens this evening--there are sure to be fireworks. I have even heard rumours of an elephant. You will be most delightfully diverted--and given the Henleys are holding their usual affair this evening, we are unlikely to be distracted by mischievous dukes.’
‘Lydia.’ Catherine looked down, colouring a little. ‘I cannot permit you to fund me in this particular venture.’
‘I am not funding you, dear. I am funding a little forgetting--for you, and for myself.’ Lydia smiled, but Catherine saw a hint of sadness in her friend’s eyes. ‘Any coin spent in the service of forgetting is entirely well-spent.’
‘Lydia.’ Catherine took her friend’s hand, squeezing it. ‘What have you to forget?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ Lydia’s smile hardened a little, as if it were armour. ‘Impending marriage. Impending domestic dullness.’
‘You speak of it as if it is inevitable.’ Catherine paused, trying to find appropriately delicate words. ‘Does it have to be?’
‘Oh, Catherine. You have not spoken with my father.’ Lydia looked away; Catherine felt her friend’s hand tremble in hers. ‘It is more inevitable than death.’
The conversation had taken a disquieting turn. Catherine, knowing that she had wounded her friend without meaning to, plucked a question out of the air.
‘Is there really going to be an elephant? Where on earth would they have managed to procure an elephant?’
‘I have no idea.’ Lydia squeezed Catherine’s hand in return; Catherine felt her gratitude, even if it was unspoken. ‘We shall have to find out.’
‘Staunton. I know we are not of long acquaintance.’ Marcus Bennington spoke carefully, watching the crowd of happy revellers with some suspicion as the evening darkened into night. ‘But allow me this indulgence. Would you be able to tell me--’
‘Why on earth we are in Vauxhall Gardens?’ James looked at his friend with a heartfelt sigh of melancholic confusion. ‘I have absolutely no idea.’
It was the truth, even if the motives for his confusion were driven by passions he was inclined to keep hidden. The Henley Ball had been easy to beg off; it would have been far too dull. He hadn’t been to bed with any of the dowagers invited, and had no desire to cause any more amorous scandals.
Not until he found the false discipline mistress from the Cappadene Club, outside the bounds of her apparent employment, and worked out just who the bloody hell she was.
‘We are normally in a gaming hell. Or a rookery. Or a--a brothel.’ Marcus coloured a little; James looked askance at him, wondering how he had managed to find an baronet so completely untouched by sin. It was practically a miracle. ‘This seems like a misstep in my debauched education.’
‘A true rake can make debauchery wherever he happens to find himself.’ James sighed. ‘Do you not remember the swathe I managed to cut through the Spanish convent?’
‘I doubt anyone who has heard the story will ever manage to forget it.’ Marcus spoke primly. ‘Nevertheless, Staunton--I can see children playing with a small dog. Debauchery seems very far away.’
‘Go and find beer. Drink an awful lot of it, find the nearest group of maids on their half-day off, and be as charming as you can. You were certainly popular in the pleasure-house.’ James knew he was being dismissive, but didn’t have it in him to play the carefree rake with his mind so completely occupied. ‘I know you have it in you.’
With a wry look that James hadn’t expected from a man so habitually timid, Marcus walked into the happy crowd. James,
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