Chapter Nine
Miss Cordelia Flowers…
My betrothed.
James caught his breath as he cast his gaze over his bride-to-be.
A shallow little corner of his soul had prayed that she would be pleasing to look at—that he’d be proud to show her on his arm to the envy of others.
But she was not just pleasing, she was glorious.
Her face, framed by hair the color of a raven’s wing—so black that it looked almost blue against the orange hue of the candlelight—held the kind of perfect proportions that would have had the artists of Italy vying for the opportunity to immortalize her on the walls of galleries, palaces, and cathedrals.
Her skin was pale, with a hint of color in her cheeks, and her lips, which formed a heart-shaped mouth, were of a color to match the roses he’d made such a pitiful attempt at reproducing in paint.
Yet his unsophisticated little painting had triumphed over the more expensive offerings of his rivals.
Why had she chosen him? Did she lack wits?
No—her eyes spoke of a sharp intelligence.
Wide and expressive, they were a pale silver that shimmered as if they’d been fashioned from the stars.
Framed by long, dark lashes that fluttered as she blinked, they focused on him with an intensity that heightened his heartbeat and sent a rush of heat to his groin.
She parted her lips, then closed them again. Tiny creases appeared in the corners of her eyes and James caught a sheen of pain in them. A jolt of recognition sparked in his heart as he recalled a similar expression in a pair of eyes that had regarded him from behind a red silk mask.
Don’t be a fool!
He cursed his imagination, which had placed his Dahlia before him each time he looked upon a woman.
When he’d arrived in London yesterday he could swear he saw her strolling past his lodgings, arm in arm with a gentleman.
Before breakfast that morning, his heart had fluttered as he spotted a maid cleaning the fireplace in the parlor.
And while strolling in Hyde Park in the afternoon, he’d seen her no less than three times.
Would he never be free of her, the doxy who’d shown him how to bed his future wife—the woman whose name he’d whispered only last night as he fisted himself to completion then lay, alone, overcome with self-loathing?
Dahlia…
The pain in Miss Flowers’s eyes deepened. Did she know he’d spent many weeks visiting a whore in this very establishment? That less than a fortnight ago he’d lain with that whore—not only lain, but he’d come to glorious pleasure and shouted her name?
His betrothed took a step back.
“I say!” a voice cried. “Methinks Aphrodite is having a change of heart.”
“Kiss her, Bedford!” another voice called. “Don’t be a milksop. Show her who’s master.”
A flicker of fear flared in her eyes, then the master of ceremonies raised his hand.
“Gentlemen, the victorious couple have given you enough entertainment tonight,” he cried. “’Tis time to indulge in our hostess’s finest liquor and to let the gaming resume.”
Then he turned to James.
“Come, gallant victor. Come, fair bride. Mrs. Dove-Lyon requests the pleasure of your company in her private suite.”
He descended the steps and motioned for James to follow.
“Shall we?” James said.
Miss Flowers blinked. Then, slowly, she nodded and they followed the master of ceremonies out of the hall.
James winced inwardly as they passed through the same hallway he’d walked through over the past weeks, dotted with doors either side, behind which he could imagine scenes of men and women locked together, indulging in pleasure as their bodies writhed and thrusted.
He could swear he could hear the slaps of flesh, the base grunts and moans of male release.
Dear Lord—did I sound like that?
He paused as they passed the door to Dahlia’s boudoir. Was she behind there? Straining to hear, he closed his eyes and shuddered as he heard a high-pitched giggle. When he opened them again, he saw that his betrothed was staring at him, the fear in her eyes having morphed into sorrow.
“Lord Bedford?” their escort said, gesturing toward the end of the hallway. “Please follow me. Mrs. Dove-Lyon does not like to be kept waiting. Miss Flowers?”
The escort turned his attention on the woman at James’s side and they exchanged a glance, recognition in their eyes.
She knows.
Damnation! Had Mrs. Dove-Lyon told her? Would she condemn him for having used a whore’s services—for being foolish enough to have fallen in love with her?
No!
He owed it to Miss Flowers to banish all such thoughts from his mind and his heart.
He was not in love with Dahlia. Or, if he had been, it was a passing fancy merely because she was his first. Perhaps that was why men of his rank rutted their way around the demimonde—to render their hearts immune to ensure that they had shed the boyish infatuation they would have held for the first woman to spread her legs for him.
And that’s all she was—a woman he’d paid to fuck.
He winced at the crudeness and guilt needling at his soul.
“Is something the matter, Lord Bedford?” their escort said. “Surely you’re not tempted?” He grinned, showing white, even teeth and tilted his head toward the door—Dahlia’s door.
“Sweet heaven no,” James said, gritting his teeth. “I’m a respectable man.”
If anything, his betrothed’s distress seemed to heighten.
James tightened his grip on her hand and they followed the youth into a parlor on the upper floor.
It was not what he’d expected a woman’s parlor to look like.
The furnishings were in deep imperial colors, and the room carried an aura of distressed elegance, as if its owner recognized quality but that quality had weathered and eroded over time.
In the center of the room was a threadbare rug woven in what must have once been bright colors.
The curtains were faded along one edge through years of exposure to the sunlight; the fabric on the sofa had thinned at the front.
The gilding adorning the frame was peeling in places, and even the clock on the mantelshelf seemed to tick with a note of forlornness.
He glanced about the parlor, expecting to see a thick layer of dust on the surfaces of the tables, and the wooden floorboards, but they shone, and an aroma of lavender and furniture polish filled the air.
The veiled proprietress occupied a wingback chair beside the fireplace, and she rose as they entered.
“The happy couple.”
She gestured to a two-seater sofa across from her chair, separated by a low table bearing a decanter and three glasses.
James led Miss Flowers toward it and they sat.
“Excellent,” their hostess said. “Puck, may I see the chosen offering?”
The youth handed the painting to her and she sat, holding it in her hands. Her veil rippled almost imperceptibly in a regular motion, as if in time to her breathing, but he saw no reaction to his offering.
Did she think it an unworthy gift? With her renowned perception, and collection of exquisite artwork adorning the corridors of her establishment, Mrs. Dove-Lyon must be sophisticated enough to appreciate and understand a fine work of art, and…
James swallowed his shame as he glanced at the painting over the mantelshelf. Ye gods—was that a Stubbs? Or perhaps a Turner. Yes, that was it—a Turner. Stubbs depicted horses, not landscapes.
Devil’s toes, I’m an ignorant fool.
And an unaccomplished one. His childish daubs in Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s hand would, in her eyes, have no value at all, save perhaps as kindling for the fire.
As if she read his mind, Mrs. Dove-Lyon glanced toward the painting on the wall, then the fire, then she met James’s gaze.
“You painted this yourself, Lord Bedford?”
James glanced at Miss Flowers, who had clasped her hands together, her body ramrod straight and vibrating with discomfort. Was she already regretting her choice?
“Y-yes, Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” he said. “But I didn’t think—”
“And it took you how long?”
Though her face was concealed, he could imagine the curl of her lip, the sneer on her mouth, and the contempt in his eyes.
“I may not have the prowess of Mr. Turner,” James said, gesturing to the painting over the fireplace, “who doubtless could have produced my work in less than a minute, and then discarded it in disgust, but I spent five days working on it, and my efforts, if not my skill, do not deserve your derision.”
The veiled figure tilted her head to one side, and James thought he caught the gleam of a pair of eyes. Then she leaned forward.
“You’re wrong, Lord Bedford.”
Could she insult him any more?
He shifted forward to rise from the sofa, but the woman beside him caught his hand, and he drew in a sharp breath as her eyes focused on him.
“How am I wrong, madam?”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon gestured to the painting over the fireplace.
“That’s a Constable,” she said. “Not a Turner.”
Then she placed James’s little painting on the table.
“You chose well, Miss Flowers.”
The soon-to-be bride nodded, but her discomfort still showed.
“Are you disappointed in your choice, Miss Flowers?” James said.
She startled, cast a glance in Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s direction, then turned to stare at him.
“No,” she said. “Are you?”
The black-clad figure stiffened, then leaned forward, clasping her gloved hands together.
“Of course not,” he said. “I-I’m very pleased with the outcome.”
Very pleased—bloody hell! It was obvious that he had no skills with a paintbrush, and now he’d confirmed that he was no wordsmith either. But, for some reason, she had chosen him over and above the others.
“May I kiss you, Miss Flowers, to seal our betrothal?” James said.
She jerked as if he’d burned her.
“Oh!” she said, glancing to Mrs. Dove-Lyon, a plea in her eyes. But a plea for what?
“If we are to be married, should we not begin with a kiss, at least?”
“I-I…” Her cheeks seemed to pale. He shifted closer, lowering his gaze to her lips. What might they taste like?
Then she tilted her head away and offered her hand.
“Quite so, Miss Flowers,” their hostess said. “The bridal kiss must take place on the day of the wedding, no?”