Chapter 11 #2
“I am pleased to see even an unsatisfactory marriage has not quelled your spirit,” he told her.
Her smile faded. “Oh . . . perhaps not entirely.”
Damn. He’d expected her to laugh, too. He said nothing and concentrated on rubbing her foot and ankle.
“My second husband was a scoundrel,” she said after a long silence, startling him. “I didn’t mean to marry him. It was . . . an accident.”
His fingers paused. How on earth did one marry accidentally?
“I suppose I should tell you now, or someone else most assuredly will,” she went on.
She put her head back again and stared up at the ceiling.
“Cunningham was my father’s choice, for my first husband, and when he died, I felt entitled to enjoy myself a bit.
So I did. I carried on with all sorts of gentlemen, including the Earl of Courtenay, who pursued me so ardently .
. .” She paused. “And I fell for it. I began an affair with him, and that outraged my father. He engineered another marriage by threatening to call out Courtenay for his ‘vile seduction and despoiling of a decent widow,’” she finished in a mocking voice.
“Courtenay wanted only an affair, not marriage. We were completely aligned on that matter, or so I thought, until my father threatened him with mention of pistols at dawn.” She paused, clearly mastering herself and continuing in a lighter tone.
“To my astonishment, I waged a fiercer protest than he did. Who would have guessed such a rogue would be an utter coward?”
“How could your father compel you?” Richard asked, not distracted. “You must have been of age.”
“Six and twenty,” she confirmed. “He had written the settlements of my marriage to Lord Cunningham in such a way that he had control over my property inherited from Cunningham, including my dowry funds. He could have left me penniless, if I disobeyed. My mother wept, begging me to atone for my sins. She completely took my father’s side. ”
She fell silent and Richard realized with fury that she was fighting for composure, even after all these years. “Had you no one else? No ally to turn to, no friend to aid you?”
“My brother, George, was the one person who might have come to my aid, but he was newly married, with an infant son.” She paused.
“The birth was difficult for his wife. He was distracted, and in truth, there was nothing he could have done. When George heard of it, he did corner Father in his study. The whole house could hear them shouting. My mother begged me to come away into the garden, but I listened at the door. It was my future they were arguing over. Father threatened to cut off his income, too, if he interfered.”
Richard, scowling, reached for her other foot.
“You mustn’t be severe on George,” she went on, misunderstanding his silence. “Looking back, I suspect he knew far better than I how lascivious a rake Court was, and how dim the prospects of a contented marriage were. He tried to prevent it, but our father was implacable.”
Thank God she’d had someone to argue for her, since her father seemed to have been an arrogant tyrant. “Are you still close with your brother?”
“Hmm?” She smiled, a touch wistfully. “We are still cordial, but after Court’s death . . .” She swished her arms through the water. “Have you any siblings?”
Richard had to breathe deeply for a moment before replying. “A younger sister. She is responsible for my presence in England, as it happens. Her husband was an Englishman, and when he died suddenly last spring, I came with all haste to help her. She has two boys.”
“Oh, the poor woman,” cried Evangeline. “How dreadful.” She leaned forward and squeezed his hand. “How good of you to come in her time of need.”
“A good brother should do no less,” he said with a smile. “I am very fond of her. It was she who insisted I needed a house of my own, and she who led me to view Humberton Hall.”
Her brows arched. “So I am in her debt!”
He lifted one shoulder, a small smile playing on his face. “I hope you think so.” He pulled her toward him, and she came into his arms so easily, so naturally he could have moaned from the rightness of it. “I know I will be eternally grateful to her.”
She draped her arms around his neck and plowed her fingers into his damp hair. “Richard . . . I have to tell you about Court.”
He heard the shift in her tone, but he didn’t want to see her grow maudlin or sad. “I understand he is dead, and that is what I like most about him.”
She smiled, but it was grim. “You should know now, because the instant anyone hears of . . . this, they will rush to tell you. Courtenay was an unrepentant, unreformed rake until the day he died, shot by his lover’s jealous husband.”
Richard couldn’t hold back his jolt of astonishment.
“What aroused Court’s passion was the chase, and perhaps the illicit nature of his dalliances.
I was only one of the merry young widows he pursued.
He had eight lovers that I knew of, but I suspect there were more in the nine years we were married.
” She didn’t quite meet his shocked gaze, instead focusing on his shoulder.
“His last lover was a newly married lady, and her husband came home unexpectedly one evening and discovered Court in her bed. The husband shot him, then and there.”
“He died in another woman’s bed?” he asked incredulously before he could stop himself.
Evangeline looked right at him and spoke dispassionately.
“That would have been preferable. Lord Ambrose shot him in the stomach, then had his servants carry Court home, where they dumped him, naked and bleeding, on the front steps. They weren’t quiet about it, either, and I vow every neighbor in the square saw him before our butler and footman could get him inside.
It was the talk of London.” She made a small, indifferent shrug. “It still is, at times.”
“Good God,” was all he could say.
“I was as horrified as anyone,” she went on in the same cool, detached voice. “Not that he was dead, but that he’d gone so . . . dramatically. I did all that was proper. I wore mourning and left London to live quietly in the country. But none of that mattered. I was deemed a wicked widow.”
“On what grounds?” He was outraged.
“I wore black in public, but not at home. I wore breeches to ride, as I’d done for years. Someone started rumors that I drank brandy, which I must confess appealed to me.” She smiled faintly. “I began drinking it, and rather like it.”
Richard shifted, settling her more securely in his lap.
He felt a surge of renewed desire, but quashed it.
She was baring her history to him, and that mattered more than the softness of her thighs atop his.
“Surely these are not sufficient reasons to ostracize a woman, especially one who was blameless. Quite unlike the husband who was unfaithful, the woman he committed adultery with, and the man who killed him.”
Evangeline clicked her tongue in reproof.
“My dear Sir Richard, you have much to learn about London society! In every scandal there must be someone to vilify and blame. Court was dead, which greatly reduced the malicious pleasure in speaking ill of him. Ambrose, who shot him, is a man, and moreover a man with a prominent government position, so people were naturally quick to pardon him—for behaving as any betrayed husband might, you know. And Lady Ambrose, who knew her husband was a jealous man but carried on with Court and likely others, was still Ambrose’s wife, young and beautiful and fashionable.
While I”—she raised her shoulders—“was not.”
“You were not beautiful?” He slid his hands around her hips in appreciation. “I refuse to believe that.”
“I was forward,” she told him, with a wry smile.
“Almost eccentric. A twice-widowed woman is always irresistible to the gossips, and there I was, riding in breeches and sipping brandy. Far more entertaining to whisper about all my shocking behavior, which must have positively driven Court to adultery.”
He swallowed another argument, because nothing to do with Courtenay interested him. “Do you worry this will also cause you torment?”
He meant them; him; this affair, which was already going so splendidly.
Finally her expression eased, and she laughed, turning to straddle him.
His abdomen tightened, and her smile grew intimate.
“Torment? No. After all this time, I don’t care what they say about me.
And if I am to be called a wicked widow .
. .” She slid her hands down his chest. “I may as well act the part.”
This woman. She would wreck him. He inhaled unsteadily as her hand went lower still. “This is not wickedness.”
She pushed one hand through his wet hair, grasping and yanking his head backward.
Richard closed his eyes and inhaled deeply as she bent her head to his throat.
“I want it to be wicked,” she whispered fiercely.
“Wild, intemperate, and unrestrained.” And she bit the taut muscle at the side of his neck.
He gasped, so aroused he could hardly speak.
“That is not wicked. Wicked would be . . . by force . . .” She had his ballocks in her hand now.
“Or in violation of God’s law,” he croaked.
“Meant to harm or betray, instead of only meant to bring pleasure.” His hips lifted of their own volition, and she laughed.
It sent a surge of ecstasy through him, and he used it to gather her into his arms and lurched forward, carrying them both back across the pool until she was once more on her original ledge, her legs still around him as he loomed over her.
“I pledge my word that I will only bring you pleasure.”
She ran her hands over his shoulders, down his arms. “Pleasure is your only object?”
“Yes.” He kissed her. “But not merely the physical pleasure of lovemaking. The pleasure of your company. A connection with a kindred soul. Even, perhaps, love.”
He regretted that last, impulsive bit as her expression froze. But then he kissed her again, and after a moment’s hesitation, she kissed him back, sweet and tender. He made love to her again, first slowly and languidly in the steam and heat, and then wildly, passionately, not caring who heard them.
“Good heavens,” she gasped weakly, as his fingers dug into her hips, holding her against him in the pool. The water barely came up to their waists now, after their exertions. “Solly will give me such a look when she sees the bathhouse . . .”
“I will clean it myself if you wish,” he said over his hammering pulse. “Only grant me a few minutes’ respite . . .”
She nestled against him, one arm around his shoulders, plucking at his wet hair again. “Richard . . . don’t fall in love with me.”
He pulled back to look at her in surprise. “What?”
She smiled. “This marvelous, lovely connection we’ve got is too pleasurable to sully with talk of love.”
His brow wrinkled. “Love does not sully.”
“You dear, sweet man,” she said in amusement, stroking his cheek.
“Love makes people do stupid things, things they regret, like marry.” She made a face.
“Not that I expected you were about to ask, but I don’t want any misunderstandings.
” She paused as his expression didn’t ease, and ran one finger over his forehead to smooth it.
“Marriage was nothing but misery for me,” she murmured. “I shan’t make that mistake again.”
“Ah,” he said, finally grasping her point. “I understand. I would never wish you to do something miserable to you.”
Evangeline let out her breath in obvious relief. “Thank you for walking me home.”
Richard grinned. “And I thank Prince Louis for leading you to my door.”