Chapter Three
I pray that I shan’t live to regret this.
Her body still glowing from the aftermath of her climax, Cordelia inhaled the masculine aroma of wood and spices, together with the scent of her own desire.
Then she sighed and placed a soft kiss on the solid male chest against which she lay.
She let her gaze wander over his perfect form, his skin bearing a pink glow from their earlier exertions.
Across the boudoir she could make out the silhouette of the bouquet—twelve roses the color of burgundy wine, which he’d presented with the eagerness of a bird desirous of his mate’s approval of the nest he’d built.
He stirred and his fingertips traced delicate lines along her arm in a loving caress, akin to the absent-minded gesture of affection between soulmates. Cordelia closed her eyes, relishing his gentle touch.
If only this moment could last a little longer! Perhaps she could make a bargain with the Almighty that if she repented all her sins, she could have five more minutes in his arms.
But no; even if she were granted another hour in his arms, she would always crave more, making bargain after bargain until she had nothing left to trade but her soul—to be sold to the devil.
She restrained a bitter smile. Society considered a woman’s ruination to be the loss of her virtue.
But real ruination was not the loss of virtue or maidenhead.
Real ruination occurred when a woman lost her heart.
And if she lost it to someone who would not, or could not, give their heart in return, then that ruination became destruction.
As Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, among her other adages…there was no greater tragedy than unrequited love.
The tide of sorrow broke through the armor Cordelia had fashioned around her heart and she caught her breath, willing it to subside.
The man beside her stirred.
“Dahlia? My love, does aught trouble you?”
“No,” she whispered, unable to stop herself from placing another kiss on his chest, flicking her tongue out to take another taste of him—something with which to remember him by.
He placed his hand on her cheek and caressed it, then ran the tip of his thumb across her lips.
“Must I go?” he said. “Do you wish me to leave to make room for the next man?”
Her heart tightened and she shook her head.
“N-no, James,” she whispered. “I want no other visitors tonight.”
Nor any other night.
Tonight she would send him away, never to visit her again. She ought to have refused him after the first time they’d shared a bed. But she’d longed for another taste of pleasure at his hands, to feel, once more, the man she loved inside her. A parting gift.
She had hoped that their second time would be overshadowed by the first. When she had taken his virginity, it was as if she had also lost hers, taking her own pleasure from a man for the first time. And, as every experienced rake and doxy knew, the first time was always the best.
But not with James. Their second time had surpassed Cordelia’s greatest hopes.
Emboldened by a successful first encounter, he took delight in exploring her body, using his hands and lips to draw pleasure from her while she surrendered to ecstasy and writhed beneath him.
Then, when he entered her, they peaked together at almost the first stroke, so ready were they for each other.
It was almost enough to make her believe in the romantic tales that young women wasted their lives dreaming of—a partnership of love where a couple experienced nothing but blissful pleasure as they came together each night, neither wanting nor needing anything, or anyone, save each other.
Just a few minutes more. Let me live the dream for a little longer.
In the hall outside her boudoir, a clock began to strike. Cordelia closed her eyes, willing it to cease, for time to stop, but she counted nine notes.
At the last, he let out a sigh, his chest rising and falling against her body. Then he sat up.
“I wish tonight could never end!” he said. “But I fear I must place duty before pleasure. Yet I will always hold a place in my heart for my beloved Dahlia.”
Her heart tightened at his words. Did he intend for this to be his final visit?
Weak fool! Did you not determine to end your liaison tonight?
She sat up, pulling the bedsheet over her naked form.
“You’re a good man, James,” she said. “You’re more than ready to take a bride and make her happy. I wish you well in your endeavors.”
He pulled on his shirt, then glanced at her, his brow furrowed into a frown.
“Does it not pain you that I intend for this to be my final visit?”
She turned away, willing the moisture in her eyes to subside.
Oh, James! If only you knew the pain I suffer at the thought of never seeing you again!
She forced a smile and turned toward him, taking his hand.
“I’ll always have a fondness for my darling James,” she said. Then she gestured to the door. “But somewhere out there, your future bride awaits. You must love her, and only her. And treat her with tenderness.”
She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it. “And you will,” she said. “You’re capable of so much love, and will make her the happiest woman in the world.”
“Do you say that to every unmarried man who visits you?”
Almost as soon as he’d spoken the words, he winced.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I-I just wish…” He shook his head. “No matter. There’s little point in wishing, if that wish can never come true.”
“Aye,” she whispered, a knot of pain tightening in her stomach. “But you’ll have the pick of London’s debutantes, James. One of them will make you happy.”
“There’s little to recommend me to London’s debutantes,” he said.
“All I have is my title. Due to my lack of fortune, I must debase myself and hunt a dowry. But it seems that the larger the dowry, the more undesirable the girl. None of them are like you, my Dahlia. They only want me to flatter the cut of their gown, or listen to them discredit their rivals in an attempt to make themselves look more attractive.”
“Have you been introduced to many young ladies?”
“I’ve been to three parties this week,” he replied.
“The young ladies are all the same. The moment they realize I’m unattached, they turn into huntresses and choose their words carefully to say what they believe will elicit a compliment or an offer of marriage.
They only want to ingratiate themselves with my title.
None of them actually want to talk to me. ”
He took her hand and interlaced their fingers.
“None of them are like you, my Dahlia.”
Cordelia suppressed the yearning in her soul at the expression in his eyes.
“Your ideal mate cannot be found after only a few parties,” she said. “Give it time.”
“I’m beginning to fear I’ll not find her anywhere,” he replied, an undertone of sorrow in his voice. “Not this year, nor any other. I’m a poor judge of a person’s character. Those whom I thought I could trust have betrayed me. Ever since—”
“Hush, my James,” she whispered, placing a finger on his lips. Her heart almost broke at the despair in his voice. So many times he’d spoken of the boys who bullied him at Harrow—schoolfellows who pretended to befriend him and gained his trust, only to torment and betray him.
Children could be cruel, but in the world in which James lived, such cruelty was viewed as a sign of a man’s prowess. The world in which Society resided had little room for a man who possessed a sensitive, caring soul.
“You’ll find her,” Cordelia said. “It may take time, for it will be a rare woman who deserves you.” She patted his hand.
“Do not look at the glittering, triumphant debutantes who are declared to be the jewels of the ton. They’re like orchids from the hothouse.
Their perfect blooms might draw you in at first, but they’ll not weather the world outside the orangery.
Instead…” She allowed herself a smile. “Instead, consider the flowers that are overlooked, whose petals might have withered and frayed, but they hide their beauty within.”
“Like the dahlias,” he said. “They can thrive outside the hothouse if given a little love.”
“Yes,” she whispered, “like a dahlia. And, when you find her, you must love her. Husbands in Society are known for not being kind to their wives. But I know you will be.”
He nodded, then reached for his breeches.
“No, let me,” she said. “One final time.”
She dressed him, fingering each garment as if to bid it farewell until, as the finishing touch, she tied his cravat.
“Better than my valet,” he said, smiling.
“Perhaps your bride might like him to teach her how to tie it for you.”
Pain flickered in his eyes and he nodded. Then he shuffled from one foot to another, shyness filling his expression.
“James? Is something wrong?”
“M-might I make a final request before we part forever?” He gestured to her blonde curls. “Will you remove your mask? And the wig? I would like to see your face.”
“I-I have no wish to deny you, James, but we both know there’s nothing to gain from that.”
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, they shimmered with moisture. Then he nodded.
“My Dahlia,” he said. “You always know what’s best for me. And you have given me your best. I shall pray to the Almighty, each night, that you’ll find someone to make you as happy as you wish me to be.”
He reached toward her face and she leaned toward him, anticipating one final touch. But instead, he checked himself, clicked his heels together and gave her a formal bow, then exited the boudoir.