Chapter Two
A few mornings later, after putting parts of the plan into play, such as borrowing the widow weeds veiled hat from Tiffany, she decided to move ahead.
This morning she was up early and her fast was broken because Farah had inspired her.
The groom had found the address, and she’d sent a note to the madam of the establishment Farah suggested and said Marlowe often frequented, and she was bouncing with excitement awaiting a response.
She had not used her real name, of course.
Raven hadn’t arrived home until near dawn; she blocked out the images of what he might have been up to and with whom. She had no idea if Lord Skye would entertain into the early hours, so where had her husband been?
If he was with a woman, then why would he not bed her? Did he not desire her?
If he didn’t find her desirable, then this idea of seducing him would fall flat, but she wasn’t about to give up without trying.
Shortly after ten o’clock, the note she’d been waiting for arrived and she was invited to meet with Madam Chloé, who was inquisitive as to the reason for her call from Lady Anonymous.
While her husband slept, she told the staff she was walking to pay a call on Tiffany who only lived around the corner, and together with her lady’s maid Petra, they set off.
Once far enough from the house and away from prying eyes, she pulled her veil down, so her face was hidden and they hailed a hackney.
In what seemed a very long time, but was only fifteen minutes, she arrived at a pretty townhouse on the fringes of Sloane Square with a bright red door.
“Are you sure you should go in alone?” Petra asked.
“You stay here with the carriage. If I’m gone longer than half an hour, go and fetch Farah and her husband.”
Her legs were shaking as she descended the carriage and for one fleeting moment, she thought her idea mad, and was tempted to leave. But before she could turn and clamber back into the hackney, the door opened and a pleasant woman in very respectable clothing welcomed her.
The interior of the establishment was nothing like what Ashley had expected.
Instead of the garish red velvet and tawdry décor she’d imagined, the parlor she was led into was decorated with understated elegance.
Cream silk wallpaper adorned the walls, punctuated by tasteful landscape paintings in gilded frames.
A Persian carpet in muted blues and golds covered the polished wooden floor, and the furniture—while clearly expensive—was arranged to create an atmosphere of intimate comfort rather than overt sensuality.
“Please, do sit,” said the woman who had greeted her at the door, gesturing toward a pale blue settee positioned near the fireplace. “I am Madam Chloé.”
Ashley had expected someone hard-faced and vulgar, perhaps with painted features and gaudy clothing.
Instead, Madam Chloé appeared to be a woman of perhaps forty years, with glossy dark hair arranged in a sophisticated chignon and wearing a morning dress of deep burgundy silk that would not have looked out of place in any respectable drawing room.
Her features were refined, her posture perfect, and when she smiled, it reached her intelligent brown eyes.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” Ashley said, settling onto the settee and trying to calm her racing heart. The veil she wore provided some measure of anonymity, but she still felt exposed, as if her scandalous purpose was written plainly across her face.
“Your note was most intriguing,” Madam Chloé said, taking the chair opposite. A maid appeared as if from nowhere, setting down a tea service on the low table between them. “It is not often I receive such…mysterious requests. You mentioned you required advice of a delicate nature?”
Ashley’s cheeks burned beneath her veil. How did one even begin such a conversation? “I…that is, I find myself in need of guidance regarding matters of…intimacy.”
Madam Chloé’s expression remained pleasantly neutral as she poured tea with practiced grace. “I see. And you felt that seeking such guidance here was preferable to consulting with female relatives or friends?”
“My situation is rather…complicated, if not embarrassing.” Ashley accepted the delicate China cup with hands that trembled slightly. “I cannot risk anyone discovering my identity or my purpose in seeking such advice.”
“Ah.” Madam Chloé settled back in her chair, studying Ashley with sharp eyes. “A married woman, I presume, seeking to improve relations with her husband?”
The directness of the question made Ashley start, nearly spilling her tea. “How did you—?”
“My dear girl, you would be surprised how common your situation is. Though I must say, most wives do not venture to establishments such as mine for guidance.” Madam Chloé’s tone was matter of fact, neither judgmental nor particularly sympathetic.
“Now, before we proceed, I must inform you that my time is valuable. I charge five pounds for a consultation of this nature.”
Five pounds. Ashley’s breath caught—it was a considerable sum, more than many families saw in a month. But what choice did she have? “Of course. That is… acceptable.”
Madam Chloé inclined her head. “Excellent. Now then, why don’t you tell me about your particular circumstances? I cannot offer useful advice without understanding the nature of your difficulty.”
Ashley set down her teacup and clasped her hands tightly in her lap. Where to begin? “My husband and I…we have been married for three months, and he has never…that is, we have not…” She took a shaky breath. “He has not come to my bed.”
“Not once?” Madam Chloé’s eyebrows rose slightly. “How very unusual. Is your husband elderly? Infirm in some way?”
“Oh no, nothing like that. He is in excellent health, quite vigorous actually. He is…” Ashley paused, realizing she must be careful not to reveal too much. “He is not yet thirty, and before our marriage, he was known to have…interests in such matters.”
“I see. And yet he shows no interest in his own wife.” Madam Chloé tapped one finger against her lips thoughtfully. “Tell me, what do you know of his romantic history?”
This was dangerous territory, but Ashley pressed on. “He was…deeply attached to another woman. She died shortly before our marriage. I believe he grieves her still.”
“Ah.” Understanding dawned in Madam Chloé’s eyes. “A marriage of convenience, then? Arranged by families, or perhaps necessitated by scandal?”
Ashley’s silence was answer enough.
“Well then, that explains a great deal.” Madam Chloé leaned forward slightly.
“A man in mourning for his lost love, bound to a wife he did not choose. Yes, I have encountered such situations before. But I must ask—why do you wish to change this arrangement? Many wives would consider themselves fortunate to be left to their own devices.”
“I want children,” Ashley said simply. “I want a child to love, a purpose beyond managing his household and attending social functions. Surely that is not too much to ask?”
Madam Chloé studied her for a long moment. “No, my dear, it is not too much to ask. But tell me—what do you look like beneath that veil?”
The question startled Ashley. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your appearance. Are you plain? Disfigured in some way? Do you possess any obvious physical flaws that might repel a man?”
“I…no, I don’t believe so.” Ashley’s face heated. “I have been told I am…reasonably attractive.”
“Stand up. Let me see you properly.”
Ashley hesitated, then rose from the settee. At Madam Chloé’s gesture, she lifted her veil, revealing her face.
The older woman’s eyes widened slightly.
“Good heavens. You are not merely ‘reasonably attractive,’ my dear—you are quite beautiful. Golden hair, fine features, excellent figure…” She shook her head in apparent bewilderment.
“Unless your husband prefers the company of men to women, there should be no earthly reason for him to ignore such a wife.”
“He definitely does not prefer men,” Ashley said quickly, lowering her veil again. “He was…very devoted to the woman he lost. Perhaps he simply needs more time to—”
“Nonsense.” Madam Chloé’s tone was brisk. “Grief is one thing, but men have needs, and those needs do not simply disappear because they are mourning. Three months is more than sufficient time for any man to begin performing his husbandly duties, particularly with a wife as lovely as yourself.”
Ashley sank back onto the settee, feeling more confused than ever. “Then why…?”
“That, my dear, is what we must determine.” Madam Chloé poured herself another cup of tea, her movements thoughtful. “Tell me, how does your husband behave toward you? Is he cold? Cruel? Does he avoid your company entirely?”
“No, nothing like that. He is…polite. Courteous. He ensures I have everything I need, and in public, he is quite protective of me. But he keeps himself distant. We rarely spend time alone together, and when we do, the conversation remains strictly proper.”
“And you have made no attempts to…encourage his attentions?”
Ashley’s cheeks flamed. “I wouldn’t know how. I was not raised with knowledge of such things, and my friends…” She trailed off, unable to admit that her friends had all been pursued by their husbands rather than the reverse.
Madam Chloé nodded slowly. “I begin to understand. You are dealing with a man who, for whatever reason, has decided to maintain strict boundaries in your marriage. Perhaps he believes he is being noble, sparing you from unwanted advances while he mourns his lost love. Or perhaps…”
“Perhaps what?”
“Perhaps he is afraid.”
“Afraid? Of what?”