The door opened. Nicolette and Caroline stepped inside. Other ladies stood there, discarding their outerwear, chatting lightly, looking like pictures of kindness and gentility. They froze when they saw the new arrivals, then hurried to the drawing room, pretending they hadn’t seen them.
“I’m sorry I put you in such an awkward position, Your Grace,” Caroline said contritely. “I promise it won’t happen again.”
“I know it won’t.” Nicolette placed one of her hands on each of Caroline’s arms and squeezed like a trainer encouraging a boxer. “Chin up!”
“And smile,” Caroline added.
Nicolette did smile, a rather toothy grin that boded ill for anyone who got in her way. “Let us conquer London today.”
When they stepped into the doorway, it was obvious by whispers and the shocked expressions the word had already spread—the infamous Miss Ritter was here.
Lady Emma, a small, slender, hunched spinster of seventy, hustled forward. “My darling Nicolette, how good of you to come. And Miss Ritter!” She offered her hand. “Is your sister better?”
Gracefully, Caroline picked up her cue. “She is, thank you. She has a weakness of the lungs and caused us much concern.”
“So you were up all night caring for your ill sister? No wonder you look tired. You will allow an old woman the liberty of speaking so bluntly, won’t you?” Lady Emma patted Caroline’s hand. “Come and sit close to me and have a refreshing cup of tea. My cook is reputed to make the best crumpets in London.”
Caroline murmured her thanks and joined Lady Emma while she poured, making small talk about the little nothings that occupied society’s attention. Nicolette moved among the guests, greeting her friends, who behaved normally, and others, who flinched as if she carried the plague. But as newcomers trickled in and everything appeared to be normal, the level of conversation gradually rose. Lady James arrived and, with a cry of pleasure touched her cheek to Caroline’s, and soon Lady Morrison, one of Nicolette’s special friends, briefly joined them for a tête-à-tête about the opera they would attend that night. A tense moment occurred when Lady Reederman arrived, but although her sharp gaze focused on Caroline, her unerring manners allowed her to do nothing but politely join in the gathering.
When Lady Emma gave Caroline a discreet shove, Caroline rose and circulated through the room. And the ladies spoke to her. No one cut Caroline. Everyone solicitously asked after her sister.
So when the silence fell, it fell with a thud that shook the room. Caroline felt the small hairs on her body rise. Slowly, she turned toward the door, and there, framed like a bony goddess of vengeance, stood Lady Freshfield.
Her eyes flamed as she looked at Caroline. Hatred blotched her cheeks. She sneered with such vicious intent her lips looked as if they were drawn on with a shaky hand. Her overdressed figure vibrated with indignation, and she looked liked a caricature of a lady drawn by an underworld artist.
Absently, Caroline wondered how Lady Freshfield had learned she was here. Gossip must have flown across London; Caroline Ritter was at a tea party and would seize her good reputation unless you take action. Who would tell her?
Ah. Of course. Lord Freshfield. He had set his wife on her last night. Probably he had done so again today, for he had hunted Caroline all these years, and he would not accept defeat now.
Yet last night, he had been routed from her nightmares. Jude made her feel immortal, as if she could conquer her troubles because she could handle him. She knew it was an illusion, but right now it seemed the truth.
Poor Lady Freshfield. Caroline realized she’d said it aloud. “Poor Lady Freshfield.”
Nicolette walked to Caroline’s side. “Lady Freshfield—”
Caroline waved her to silence. She didn’t need Nicolette’s help. Her body ached from holding Jude within it, a constant reminder of what love should be, and she was not going to cower before this pathetic reminder of love gone wrong.
“How dare you show your face in London society again?” Like a thin, venomous snake, Lady Freshfield glided forward, her unblinking gaze fixed on Caroline. “Did I teach you nothing last night?”
“You tried to teach me bad manners, but I am resistant,” Caroline said without flinching.
A few of the onlookers gasped. A few giggled. And Nicolette whispered, “That’s it, knock her out.”
“You can’t be here among good women. They’ll never accept you,” Lady Freshfield said. “You’re notorious.”
“Yes. Even after four years, people remember my name.” Caroline watched Lady Freshfield as she absorbed the insult, as her hand lifted. Caroline caught Lady Freshfield’s wrist.
Lady Freshfield struggled to free herself. Her claw of a hand held talons ready to rip out Caroline’s eyes.
For the first time in her life, Caroline was truly glad she was a tall woman. She was glad she was young and strong, and glad for the difficult years that had taught her to defend herself, for she wouldn’t allow Lady Freshfield to hurt her. In a cold, clear voice that reached to the edges of the room, she said, “I beg of you, Lady Freshfield, remember—brawling is so vulgar. If we indulge, these ladies might think that we’re common.”
Amusement rippled through the room. Caroline heard the faintest call of, “Brava!” but what mattered now was staring into Lady Freshfield’s eyes and enforcing her own will. This time, her voice reached only Lady Freshfield’s ears. “You will not attack me. I will triumph.”
“You’re a whore.” Lady Freshfield’s voice was shrill and hysterical.
“That is quite enough.” Lady Emma stepped forward, very much the aristocrat and the lady. “We don’t use that kind of language in my house. It is common. Furthermore, I didn’t invite you today, Lady Freshfield, and I know I didn’t ask you to vet my guests. I suggest you’ll be happier at home until you’ve recovered your softer sensibilities and are fit to be in gentle company.”
Lady Freshfield looked around at the women who stared at her as if she were some unknown beast. She scuffled with Caroline for one more moment. Then, abruptly, she gave up. Her struggles died.
Caroline cautiously released her and stepped back in fear of a stealthy, slashing attack.
Lady Freshfield breathed heavily as if she’d run miles in her heeled shoes, and she spoke to the gathering at large. “I can’t believe you would let her be here. You, all of you—you’re not truly noble. You don’t know proper behavior. All you care about is money and influence, and you let her join you because of the fortune, and because a duchess”—the word rang with scorn—“sponsors her. But when Miss Ritter steals your husband, and he never returns to your bed again, you’ll be sorry.” Whirling, she stomped away, leaving an obnoxious aftertaste behind her.
“Well.” In a parody of astonishment, Lady Reederman sat with her teacup held partway to her mouth. “We’ve been properly put in our places.”
Nervous laughter rippled through the room.
“Miss Ritter, I believe you were telling us about your sister,” Lady Reederman said. “Pray continue.” When Caroline stared at her in confusion, she added, “It was time someone put that harridan in her place. Miss Ritter, I’m not surprised it was you.”
Week 2: See that Lord Huntington has comprehensive exposure to ladies at teas and dances.
Caroline stared at her entry, written with such hope weeks ago, and laughed aloud. Exposure? Oh, yes, he’d had exposure. She had exposed herself to him for their mutual enjoyment.
Dipping her pen into her inkwell, with a flourish she wrote:
Lord Huntington does well in all matters of romance, but like any high-spirited stallion, he requires a firm hand on the reins.
She laughed again. Yes, she had ridden him as if he were a stallion, and like any good rider, she had kept control of her mount. She patted her hot cheeks as she remembered all that they’d done during the night.
With his encouragement, Lord Huntington imbues a woman with the audacity to discover the kind of female she was born to be before n
eglect and cruelty sapped her strength.
Caroline couldn’t lie to herself. She wouldn’t have had the courage to face Lady Freshfield as she had that day if Jude hadn’t allowed her such liberties the night before. Knowing that a strong man had submitted himself to her rule made her appreciate her own power, and resolve that she would allow no man—no one—to ever use her again.
When Lord Huntington marries, I expect to hear his wife is the most blissful of women, for he is the most virile of men.
Chapter 21
“If you see me nodding off, dear, please give me a discreet jab with your elbow. It’s considered bad form for the duchess of Nevett to go to sleep in the middle of an aria.” Nicolette subsided into her chair at the front of Nevett’s private box. “Although how anyone manages to stay awake is more than I can comprehend.”
Caroline grinned at such cavalier indifference. “I don’t understand how anyone can sleep during the opera.”
“You mean because the singers are so unearthly loud, and we’re so miserably close?” The ducal box sat to the left of the stage where, when one sat near the rail, as did Nicolette and Caroline, they could see everyone and everyone could see them.
“No, because the music is so grand and the singing so inspiring.”
Nicolette snorted. “That’s what they tell me.”
“If nothing else, opera is fashionable.” With a wave of her gloved hand, Caroline’s indicated the interior of the Royal Italian Opera House. The opera house had reopened two years ago, and every seat on the floor was taken, every box on all three layers was filled. The brilliant paint glowed gold in the houselights, and the dome rose far above the floor in celestial splendor. “Everyone in the ton is here.”
“Ah, but one of the advantages of being a duchess, and I admit there are quite a few, is that it doesn’t matter what everyone else is doing.” Nicolette settled back with a smug grin. “I’m still a leader of the ton whether I attend the opera or not.”
“In that case, you might as well nod off. Boredom can’t hurt your social standing.”
Nicolette admonishingly pointed her finger at Caroline. “Don’t tempt me.” But she laughed. “In truth, when the lights go down, I’ll move to the back of the box. No one can see me there. Then all I have to worry about is snoring so loudly I can be heard.”
Caroline chuckled, irrepressibly pleased with the night, her circumstances, and her companion. How could she not be? Although she knew it had never been Nevett’s plan, his patronage had elevated her status from that of a soiled dove to the heady heights of companion to the duchess. She ate well, she dressed well, she once again dwelled among the society she had been groomed to join, and if some people looked at her askance, she had no fear of them, for the duke’s status protected her…and after that day’s tea, so did her own bravado.
Best of all, she had no reason to feel guilty. Her elevation came because she was diligently doing the work for which she’d been hired. She was helping Jude once again become an accepted member of society, and she was proud of her advances. By the end of the Season, she would have him married…
All right, she did have one reason to feel guilty.
A responsible governess did not sleep with her student. She most certainly didn’t tie him to the bed first, even though he had allowed her the liberty. Her eyes half closed as she remembered the pleasure she had dispensed and the pleasure she had reaped.
No, a respectable governess didn’t kiss a man until he writhed or ride him until both were exhausted; but it had been one time only, a moment of madness to prove to herself, once and for all, that she was in control of her life, herself, and her passions.
And Jude’s, of course. She had conquered Jude in a fabulous and triumphant campaign. She was a woman filled with a sense of her own power.
Nicolette held her opera glasses to her face and examined the boxes on the other side of the theater. She looked down at the floor where the hoi polloi sat and talked and wandered. “Where is Jude?” Nicolette asked. “He’s supposed to be here by now.”
Caroline smoothed her silk skirt with careful hands. “I don’t know.” Was he avoiding her? Did he regret the previous night? Had she read him wrong, and his pleasure hadn’t been as great as hers?
Or was he, perhaps, angry that she’d sneaked away? Angry that she’d refused to untie him and had forced him to do as she wished? At the memory, she could scarcely contain her breathing. How dreadful—or wonderful—that the mere thought of him sent her into palpitations.
“That’s his voice in the corridor,” Nicolette said. “See what he’s doing, dear.”
Caroline went to the doorway and looked out.
Jude stood there, speaking to Comte de Guignard and Monsieur Bouchard, and he looked…marvelous. He was heart-stoppingly handsome with a profile that defined masculinity. The brow, broad and sure, the nose, once broken and now battered, the purposeful jaw, those lips…Jude’s lips made kissing an art, one whose memory alone made Caroline rest her hand over her heart to still its pounding.
“I’m still so shocked to hear about the burglary in your home last night.” Jude’s voice quivered with horror. “It’s obviously the work of someone who hates the French.”
“I am not French.” Comte de Guignard was terse enough to be rude. “I’m from Moricadia.”
Jude’s costume in shades of mauve didn’t offend her eye, but she suspected the clothing no longer mattered for she now knew what lay beneath. To her, all that mattered was Jude’s sleek, muscled body, scarred by violence, the rough hair and smooth skin, the masculine organ that promised and gave so much rapture.
Tears sprang to her eyes as she recalled the pleasure, and more tears as she realized that once was not enough. She would allow herself no more of those sweet visitations; she’d done as she wished and discovered why women so readily gave themselves up to a man’s embrace. She’d taken joy from him and given joy in return, and now she would be as she’d been before: celibate and solitary.
Pulling herself back into the box, she leaned against the wall, whisked the tears off her cheeks, and pretended not to care.
“But you’re not Moricadian, eh? True Moricadians are not much more than peasants. If France hadn’t taken over the country, they’d still be eating quail without a single sauce.” Jude sounded like an actor declaiming, and a bad actor at that. “You and your fellow Frenchmen who rule the country are the real aristocrats.”
“That’s true,” Comte de Guignard said softly.
To Caroline’s surprise, he sounded like a hissing snake.
“The sooner Moricadia unites with France, the happier you’ll be,” Jude said.
Comte de Guignard said something in a language Caroline neither understood nor recognized, but the tone made her turn her head and frown.
“What?” Huntington asked, sounding bewildered.
“The comte said you have a superior understanding of his mind.” Monsieur Bouchard’s voice clearly told Caroline he was lying.
For the first time she wondered why Huntington seemed so enamored of the two men. They neither liked nor respected him. They didn’t bother to hide their scorn. Jude said he worshipped all that was French, but as Comte de Guignard had taken care to remind Jude, they weren’t truly French.
“I must thank you for including me in your shooting today,” Jude said happily. “I’ll wager you didn’t realize I was an expert shot.”
“You are an expert, indeed.” Monsieur Bouchard sounded delighted. “And when I told a few of the kind friends we’ve made in your ton, they assured me everyone knows about your gift.”
“Oh, please.” Caroline could almost hear Jude blush. “I am abashed.”
The orchestra struck up the overture.
“Ah. We should return to our box,” Comte de Guignard said.
“Visit us during the interlude,” Jude invited.
Caroline, afraid to be caught eavesdropping, started back for her chair, but when she heard her name, she stopped.
&nb
sp; “Miss Ritter is with us, and she adores you both.” Jude whispered loudly. “Especially you, my dear comte.”
Caroline didn’t know what to think. Why would Jude say such a thing? She’d told him what she thought of Comte de Guignard—did Jude think only of pleasing the Moricadians? Despite his frivolity and seeming insensibility, Jude was not a stupid man. In fact, Caroline realized she had great regard for his intellect. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but something reeked of deception.
Hurrying back to her chair, Caroline told Nicolette, “He’s still in the corridor holding forth with Comte de Guignard and Monsieur Bouchard.”
He stepped into the box, and Nicolette instructed, “Shut the door and sit down, Jude. The opera is beginning.”
“Yes, Mum.” He pulled his chair directly behind Caroline’s, and sat close enough that she could smell the clean scent of his masculinity, was aware of his every movement, felt crowded against the rail.
And her indignation melted. She knew what Jude was; he’d never pretended to be anything but a habitué of the Moricadians and the French. For the moment Caroline would be happy to have him close behind her and untouchable.
The lights dimmed in the house and brightened on the stage. The music swelled, and the soprano danced out on the stage. She was buxom, handsome, and had eyes so lively they reached across the distance to enchant everyone in audience.
Everyone, that was, except Nicolette. Nicolette slouched into her chair, and when the soprano opened her mouth to sing, Nicolette groaned without delicacy or a care to the company in the other boxes.
“Sh,” Caroline whispered. “Those around us will think it’s me.”
Nicolette glanced from side to side. The walls between the boxes were thin, but solid. “The lights are down. No one can see me. Jude can take my place.” And standing, she moved to the back of the box. She sat on one chair, pulled another under her feet, folded her arms across her chest, and let her chin sink to her chest. Her low voice wafted across the box. “Enjoy the opera, children.”