Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Ariadne stared at her reflection, wondering if the woman she was staring at was truly her. The nightgown was soft, blush pink with ribbons for the arms, a square neck, and another ribbon that tied below her breast.
Turning, she saw the scandalous dip of the back, that took a plunge; it bared the smooth line of her spine only to come together over her bottom, another elegant ribbon was tied into a bow a hairsbreadth above the small of her back.
It was scandalous.
She felt twin stabs of desperation and hope.
“How is it, Your Grace?”
“I never knew such garments existed,” Ariadne wondered.
“Wonderful. Now for the stockings.” The modiste held up black silk stockings and matching shirred garters.
Dressed, Ariadne turned in front of the cheval glass. “I—” be brave, Ariadne. “—I’ll take these and order what other styles you have that you think will be best for me.”
“Lovely,” Modiste Redmonde smiled. “I have some fashion plates I have designed if you would like to look over them while I make some minor adjustments to this nightgown. Your job is to concentrate on cultivating your boudoir style.”
Changing back into her original clothes, she headed back to the waiting room with an armful of fashion plates.
“Can you show me what she put you in?” Clara asked.
Finding the fashion plate and handing it over, Clara’s face lifted in glee. “I have a version of this, except my shoulders are fuller. Believe me when I tell you, my husband couldn’t keep his hands off me.”
Ariadne's cheeks flamed. “To be fair… Cedric and I haven’t crossed that boundary yet.”
Clara’s mouth dropped, “What? Why not?”
Mortified, Ariadne told her friend about that night and the mental process that went with it. “My mother always told me it was something perfunctory duty a wife must do.
“She always told me that she imagines herself somewhere else, shopping for silks, or crafting a hat, and with any luck, I’d have done my duty, and the dreadful business will be over.”
Clara’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. “W-what?”
Thinking it over— and comparing what her mother had told her and what she had experienced with Cedric—showed her just how ridiculous she sounded.
Her friend echoed the words in her head, “I have never heard of such a thing.”
“Apparently, it’s the same advice her mother gave to her,” Ariadne said. “As I think it over, I should never have listened to my mother’s advice about bonnet crafting.”
Clara was still at a loss for words; her mouth opened and closed several times before she said, “Well, if what you said about you not closing the marriage, clearly bonnets were not made.”
“No,” Ariadne replied. “And I partly blame my nightgown for that, too.”
“Partly?” Clara paged through the rest of the fashion plates. “Why partly?”
“I was na?ve in thinking we would do such a thing when he did not know me from Adam,” Ariadne admitted while seeing a plate of a flounced blue silk nightgown constructed for a woman with child.
She shifted one that was off the shoulder and silky grey with slits up the side. She slid that one to the side.
“One thing I know is that men are simple creatures,” Clara asked. “They act more on instinct than on deep thought. Some eat with their eyes, well, metaphorically, and believe me, when he sees you in this gown, you’ll be making bonnets every night.”
“I do,” she replied as the modiste stepped out of the backroom holding a flat white box in her hands.
“Your order is ready, Your Grace,” the modiste said. “Have you decided on another set?”
“I have three,” she said while standing, “I also have one more request, I need a ballgown—” she winced “— in two weeks’ time. I know it's short notice, and I will happily compensate you for the rush.”
“Thank goodness,” Clara sighed.
Modiste Redmonde did not look flustered. “I’d be happy to. If you would step into the cloth room with me and choose a fabric and a style, I’ll be happy to get it done.”
Stepping into his home, Cedric headed straight to Leander’s rooms.
Gesturing to Hunt, he said, “Let’s start with the obvious places. His office and his bedroom. He may not have left any clues as to where he was going, as he had not been here since the wedding, but find anything else that might give us a clue.”
“Tear the place apart,” he directed his men, who immediately headed to the bedroom down the hall while Cedric, for Leander’s office.
“Anything in particular we’re looking for?” A footman asked
“It always comes down to money and contacts,” Cedric said.
A quick rummage through each of the drawers revealed that there was nothing out of the ordinary within. Jaw tight, he surveyed the room.
If I were my idiot brother, where would I hide my secrets?
His eyes landed on the large portraits hanging on the wall opposite the desk.
There was one for a phaeton, a portrait of their late father, and one of the young Prince Regent.
Running his hands along the edges of the heavy frames, he found no obvious mechanisms, no hidden cache behind the paintings to open.
“Did I really think Leander would be that clever?” He grunted to himself.
Heading to the bookcase, he pulled books away and flipped through the pages before replacing the book and removing another. Once again, he questioned himself on why Leander would keep his secrets in a book.
Heading to the desk, he tugged open four drawers, and when he got to the last, he tugged on the handle, but it didn’t budge. He knelt beside it and held the candle up, examining the lock.
“Where are the lock picks, Hunt?”
After being handed the kit, he slid the picks in and could feel the resistance; soon, the lock clicked, and he pulled the drawer out. A metal box squatted at the bottom.
He pulled it out and faced a small padlock attaching the lid to the base. Sighing, he used the picks again, and with three clicks of the lock and several minutes later, Cedric was able to open the box. Taking out the folios inside, he spun through them.
“Foreign bank accounts, foreign land holdings, investments on a steamboat,” he tossed the folio on the table. “The usual suspects a lord has.”
“These foreign land holdings,” Hunt took the folio up, “They are in America.”
“That’s where he is going with a fortune in hand,” Cedric said, “And with those investments, he will make a good life on those shores. One thing about Leander, he might be a scallywag, but he is a smart scallywag. He’ll find every opportunity in America to flourish.”
“Do you plan on letting him go?”
Cedric paused, “Yes. At this point, I wonder if I need any answers from him again.”
A footman came to the door, “Your Grace, Her Grace is home.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Tell her, I will be with her shortly.”
“Shall we still intercept Lord Moreland tonight?” The footman asked.
“No,” Cedric said while gathering Leander’s folios, meaning to take them back to his study to go through them. “But station men at every port in case he is shipping off. We’ll take him then.”
As he went off to his study, he dropped the books off before heading off to find Emily. He hated losing so much time with his daughter.
He stepped into Emily’s room to see her governess ushering Emily from her bathing room to her bed, clad in her muslin nightgown and her hair up in a cap.
“Papa!” Emily called out happily, running to hug him around his legs. “I am glad you’re here. I want to show you something.”
“Yes, pumpkin?” he said, crouching down to her level.
“Look!” she grabbed his hand and tugged him to a desk that held a still-drying paint drawing. “This is for you!”
For a child of seven, Emily had a flair for the brush. Although not accurate, he saw his figure, Emily, Leander—damn that man—and Ariadne. Above them was what looked like a blond angel.
“It’s a family portrait,” Emily said. “See? That’s you,”—she pointed to the biggest figure—“Uncle Leander,”—a figure with dark hair—“Miss Aria and me.”
“Thank you, sweetheart. You are a veritable Leonardo da Vinci.” His face softened as his eyes took in the figures in the picture. “That’s a pretty angel.”
“That’s mother,” Emily said proudly. “She’s in heaven looking down on us.”
He felt struck in the heart with a heated knife but managed to muster a smile. Emily did not know about her mother’s duplicity, and if he had a hand in it, she would never, ever know. “Yes, pumpkin, yes, she is. Thank you, Emily. I’ll make sure to have it framed.”
She smiled and gave him a tight hug. “Have you some time to read a story tonight?”
“I do.” He said, then dismissed her governess. “So, what are we reading tonight?’
Stepping into his room, Cedric stripped his jacket and tugged his neckcloth away as if it had offended him. Dropping both on the nearest flat surface, he looked around but did not see Ariadne.
“I hope I didn’t scare her off with sleeping together last night,” he sighed while rubbing the tense lines at the back of his neck. “Because I want to have her in my bed again.”
It was late in the evening, past dusk, and he realized he had not eaten at all, that day. Would she want to eat supper with him, too?
As he began to disrobe, Athena trotted in as easily as she pleased before sitting herself down at the fireplace.
“Cedric?” Ariadne called as she pulled the door between them. When her eyes landed on him, her expression cleared. “Oh, yes, I thought I heard you.”
She was wearing that thick robe again, and he held back a groan. If only he could burn that thing, and all the duplicates she had in store, not to mention the tent-like nightgown that only a nun would desire.
She smiled. “Have you eaten?”
“No,” he said. “And I wanted to ask if you’d share supper with me?”
“I’d love to,” Ariadne untied the cords of her robe and tossed the cloak onto his chair.
Something kicked Cedric in the chest, punching the air out of his lungs. The sudden gust left him light-headed, unable to hold onto a single solid thought, save one.
Who is the creature in front of him?
The Ariadne he knew wore primly nightclothes, with enough ribbons, flounces, and buttons that covered her from head to toe. The voluminous sack had done a disservice to her body and dampened his desire for her.
This Ariadne, however, wore a gown that highlighted every dip and curve of her body. The silky blush fabric glimmered with red at places with the firelight flickering over her body, and some parts of it were as see-through as cheesecloth.
The square bodice bared her plump, fair breasts almost to the nipple. In fact, he surely could see her nipples, the faint outline of puckered buds visible under the gossamer breath of silk.
The thin rouge ribbon tied beneath her breasts emphasized the fullness of her bosom; he felt his mouth water.
“Cedric?” She was looking at him with innocence as pure as driven snow.
“What are you wearing?” he asked in wonder.
“Clara took me to her dressmaker, and she was so fortunate enough to have this on hand,” she said. “I know you said you hated my old nightclothes.”
When she turned, and he saw the back of it, he swore his heart stopped. The lapels of her nightgown framed the supple dip of her spine and rested on the shelf of her rounded bottom. Who could have made this despicably wicked garment?
He stood and crossed the room to stick a finger into the loop of the bow on her shoulder. “If I pull this, does this slip of nothing come off?”
“Yes,” she replied.
He toyed with the strap and stroked the back of his finger under it and over her skin, but resisting temptation, he pulled away. “Let me order supper. I want you to stay the night.”
“I’d love to,” she said.
All through the supper of good beefsteak, light root vegetables, and hot spiced cider, the food tasted like ash to his mouth as he could not tear his eyes from Ariadne’s body.
With the plates cleared away, Cedric nursed his drink. “What is the name of this dressmaker?”
“Modiste Teresa Redmonde,” she replied, sitting back in her chair at an angle that let her right breast pop out of the slinky fabric.
“Did you order a new wardrobe?” he asked.
“Only a few pieces first and a ball gown for out upcoming ball,” she said. “In time, I’ll get more but I want to get my sisters a few pieces before I get more for myself.”
“Always so self-sacrificial,” he murmured.
“I—” she paused. “I don’t want to overspend but—”
He waved her off, “You have a generous allowance for any reason you want. If you want to spoil your family, I will not stop you.”
She smiled, “Thank you.”
Setting his cup aside, he ordered, “Come here.”
“Why?”
Spreading his legs, he said, “Just come here.”
Obediently, she rounded the chair and came to him; unceremoniously, he pulled her down to his lap and kissed her. “I couldn’t think during the meal,” his lips grazed over to her ear. “All I could think about was to kiss you and peel this gown off you tonight.”
Bending, he kissed the rounded tops; her skin flowed like silk beneath his lips just as his hand plucked the first bow at her shoulder open and followed with the second.
With her top bare, he spiraled his tongue slowly toward the peak of one breast, teasing her nipple into plump ripeness but not yet tasting the fruit.
His animal instincts warred with logic. If you stay in control, there’s no harm in having a little fun, he reasoned. Satisfied with his decision, he cupped his wife’s breasts, enjoying their firm heft.
“Cedric, please,” she begged in a breathy voice.
He drew her nipple into his mouth, sucking with firm pressure, and cries of pleasure surged to his head while his length thickened in his trousers.
The wet friction of his tongue made her moan and squirm delightfully against his lap, and he switched his attentions to her other breast, licking and flicking, while rubbing the first, keeping it wet and stiff.
Soft gasps left her trembling lips, as her lashes fluttered against her cheeks. Her hand slid into his hair as the sweetest sounds left her mouth. Pulling away, he touched his mouth to hers as his tongue slid against the seam of her mouth, but she didn’t take long to accept him in.
Devil and damn, she made him hard.
He toyed with the idea of playing with her some more, but his pounding erection convinced him otherwise. Her fresh scent filled his nostrils as desire roared to life inside him.
“I want to teach you something,” he murmured on her lips.
“What?” Her lips coasted over his jaw.
“Get on your knees,” he said.