A Lascivious Lady (8 page)

“Insults do not become you Traverson,” she said softly and without malice, refusing to be drawn into an argument. For once in her life she would face her problems as an adult, with no sarcasm or biting remarks to steal the attention from the actual topic at hand.

“Yet they become you so well,” he returned. A muscle above his jaw she had never noticed before ticked wildly, indicating his anger ran well below the surface.

Bewildered as to the source of his fury, she ventured a hesitant guess. “Are you… unsatisfied? Because I thought… That is to say what occurred was… Well, simply put…” Heavens. When was the last time she had been incapable of forming a complete sentence? Around Traverson , she thought. Only around Traverson.

“Only as satisfied as I imagine the rest of the men you have slept with are,” he said bitingly, eyes flashing a stormy gray.

So that was it. Josephine’s shoulders nearly sagged with relief. She could handle a bit of jealousy. Traverson had forgiven her before; he would do so again. She could not say in all honesty that she regretted her liaisons with the small handful of other men she had known intimately besides her husband, for in a roundabout way they had served to bring her here, to this very moment.

Stepping forward, she went to wrap her fingers around his forearm. He yanked it away. She tried again. Then same result ensued. “Traverson,” she said, her voice tinged with exasperation. “You knew I have been… indiscriminate. But that is all in the past. I never expected to—”

“To what?” he asked coldly. “To sleep with your own husband? How can you expect me to look you in the eye, knowing you have done the same with other men? How can you possibly expect me to believe you would be faithful now?” A frustrated sigh passed between his lips, and with a quiet oath he ran his hand through his hair and turned away, facing her with his back. His muscles knotted and clenched beneath his shirt, showing the tension he held within. “I loved you, Josephine. I loved you blindly, despite all of your faults. I loved you before I met you and I loved you after I married you. Yes, I knew you were with other men and I forgave you, for I also knew you did not marry me willingly. I thought, with time, that you would come to care for me… And I sense, in your own way, that you have. But knowing what I know now… Knowing how it can be between two lovers, and knowing that you have shared that experience with others… It is not enough. It can never be enough.”

The first trickling of true panic slid uneasily down Josephine’s throat. “What – what do you mean? Traverson, what are you saying?”

“Love is not enough,” he said flatly. “Love without trust is not enough. What I feel for you – what I felt for you – is not enough.”

“But you knew!” Josephine cried. “You knew my past mistakes before we came together. I am sorry, Traverson. So sorry for what I have done, for how I have hurt you, but we can look past that now. We can move forward.” She swallowed hard. This was worse than any argument. Worse than any fight. In a fight one could explain away the hurtful things they said, blaming them on anger and spite. But now… Now every word Traverson said was calmly spoken, every word rang with truth, and every word brought her closer and closer to her knees.

Slowly Traverson pivoted to face her. His hands, she noted dazedly, were clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned white. “I am sorry as well,” he said, still not quite meeting her eyes. “I never should have come here. I never should have let this happen.”

“I do not regret it. What we did, we happened between us… It was wonderful. More wonderful than I ever could – ever could have dreamed.” Something was burning the back of her eyelids. The unexpected pain made her voice crack, and when she tried to swallow the lump in her throat stopped her.

“I do regret it and I am sorry it happened,” he said, finally lifting his gaze to stare straight at her.

If Traverson had stabbed her a thousand times he could not have wounded her as deeply as speaking those ten words. Her mouth opened. Closed. No sound came out, and now she recognized the burning for what it was. Tears. She was about to shed tears, something she had not done since she was fifteen. Still, Josephine was not without her pride. Traverson could make her cry all he wanted, but she would be damned before she allowed the tears to fall in his presence.

“Yes, well,” she began, using every ounce of strength she possessed to bring lightness to her tone. “If that is how you feel than that is how you feel. I would never dream of changing your mind. You had to lose your virginity sometime, Traverson. It might as well have been with me. I believe I will return to the estate now. I – I forgot I am attending the opera tomorrow evening and I will have to leave this afternoon if I am to return in time. Do be a dear and escort me back, will you not?”

“I am sorry, but I cannot do that,” he said.

Josephine blinked, then blinked again. She would not cry in front of Traverson. She would rather die first. Or be beset upon by a thousand snakes. Or writhe in a pit of boiling lava for all eternity. Anything was better than showing the man she loved how deeply he had wounded her. The worse part was she could not blame him – surely she would have done the same thing in his position. Why, the mere thought of him with another woman was enough to make her nauseous.

Pasting a smile on her face, she dipped into a mocking curtsy, mumbled a few spare words of farewell, and fled.

“You are leaving? But you only just got here.” Staring incredulously at her friend, Catherine perched her hands on her hips and shook her head vigorously from side to side. She had been doing much of the same since Josephine had marched down the stairs half an hour ago, bag in hand, and announced her departure. Since then the two women had been enclosed in the front parlor while Catherine did her best to change her friend’s mind and Josephine stared silently out the window.

“Absolutely not,” Catherine continued, her eyes flashing a dangerous shade of blue. “If you and Traverson had a tiff then by all means go to your room until you feel better, but you cannot just leave! Why, more guests are arriving right before dinner and I —

Josephine, are you even listening?”

From across the parlor Josephine nodded slightly, indicating she heard everything that Catherine had said, but she still refused to say a single word.

Three lines of worry appeared on Catherine’s forehead as her brow creased. She had never seen her friend at a loss of words before… Why, Josephine without anything to say was as uncanny as the sun refusing to rise. She looked ill as well, her normally bright cheeks washed of all color, her eyes devoid of their usual mischievous sparkle, and her erect bearing ruined by slumping shoulders.

Catherine’s sturdy boots – she had been out on a ride with Marcus when a livery boy told her of Josephine’s sudden desire to leave – sank into the thick gold and red floral carpet as she crossed the room and curved her arm around Josephine’s back. “Has something happened with Traverson?” she asked gently.

Josephine nodded.

“Was it something… bad?” Catherine ventured.

Another nod.

“Do you wish to talk about it?

“No,” Josephine sighed. “Although I suppose I should.”

Her face oddly blank and her voice devoid of any emotion, she went on to tell Catherine in no uncertain terms exactly what had transpired between her and Traverson. When she was finished she returned to staring out the window while Catherine struggled to understand why a man would hurt the woman he professed to love so dearly.

Certainly she knew Josephine was no saint, nor was she hardly the innocent party, but Traverson could have washed his hands of her long ago. Instead he had chosen to ignore her indiscretions as only a hopeless romantic could. Once Catherine had commended him for his blind eye; now she was not so certain.

How much different would it have been between them, she mused silently, if Traverson had taken a stand at the very beginning?

If he had demanded Josephine stay faithful and true? Unfortunately, knowing Josephine as well as she did, the honest answer was that in doing so he would have certainly driven an irreparable wedge between himself his headstrong wife. Josephine was like a wild horse testing the boundaries of her new captivity. Snap the lead back too hard and you risked breaking her neck, or, in this case, any possibility of a future.

Yet for the first time Josephine had gone to Traverson, not the other way around, and if everything she said was true – which Catherine had no reason to doubt – then she had offered herself to her husband with no holds barred… and he had turned her away.

Men. Catherine rolled her eyes. They were complete bumbling fools when it came to women and Josephine’s husband was certainly no exception. Still, she liked the man, and still being of the opinion that he was a perfect match for her friend, decided then and there that she would do her best to help salvage their marriage.

“Grace will be here tomorrow,” she said, referring to one of their closest friends, a dark haired, sweet natured girl who was endearingly clumsy. “Lord Melbourne will be accompanying her.” This was said with great significance, as it was well known that Grace’

Grace s intended, the enigmatic Lord Melbourne, was the closest thing to a sworn enemy that Josephine possessed. She had been trying for over a year to break off their engagement, still to no avail.

Usually the mere mention of his name was enough to ruffle her feathers and have her spouting off about how Grace deserved so much better than the secretive Earl, but today she merely shrugged her shoulders and turned to stare out the window.

“That is nice. I do believe I will leave before they arrive. Do give Grace my best. I shall have to catch up with her when we are all in London.”

“Josephine…” Biting her lip, Catherine placed her hand upon her dear friend’s shoulder and gently squeezed. “Do you think leaving is truly the right thing to do?”

Turning her head, Josephine offered a smile that fell far short of her eyes. “Why in the world would I possibly stay? I love Traverson and he no longer loves me. There. I have said it out loud, which must make it true. We were never right for each other. I knew that all along. I just… let myself forget for a time. I shall remember eventually that I find him dull and boring and impossibly naïve and things will go back to the way they were. Yes, it is the right thing to do.”

“You cannot simply fall out of love with someone,” Catherine insisted.

Josephine’s laugh was short and quick and humorless. “Why not?”

“Because I tried it for years, and it does not work. You know how absolutely miserable I was without Marcus, and he without me. You and Traverson are like that. Apart you are fine, but together…”

“Together we are what? Argumentative? Bitter? Hopeless?”

“Magnificent. When you are together you are nothing short of magnificent, whether you see it or not. So return to London, if that is your wish. Run away with your tail tucked between you legs but know—”

“I am not running away,” Josephine interjected with a faint scowl.

“Oh no? And what would you call leaving without a word to anyone, least of all your own husband?”

“I am telling you ,” she pointed out irritably.

“I am not married to you. Do not make the same mistake I did, dearling. I ran from Marcus, and it was the most miserable time of my life.”

Shrugging free from Catherine’s grasp, Josephine turned from the window. “But he came back for you,” she said softly.

“Yes,” Catherine acknowledged after a long pause. “But what if he had not? Is that something you are willing to risk?”

In a flat, emotionless voice that sent chills down Catherine’s spine and brought tears to her eyes, Josephine said, “You cannot risk what you do not have.”

Josephine left an hour later. Ruthlessly fighting back the tears that threatened to spill, she snapped the carriage shades closed and stared straight ahead, ignoring the mutterings of her maid who sat across from her, a dark scowl on her face.

Amelia had been less than pleased when Josephine had announced their imminent departure from Kensington, and her displeasure had grown with every hoof beat that took them further from Traverson and closer to London.

“…do not see why we have to leave so quickly! Why, I did not even have time tae pack everything. The rest will have to be shipped, and ye know how the post is always losing things. Turn around. We have not gone that far yet. Turn around and—”

“Melly?”

“Yes’m?” the maid replied hopefully.

“Do shut your mouth.”

For the rest of the long, arduous journey the women rode in silence. When the carriage finally arrived at her townhouse at half past five, Josephine departed first after delivering a curt order for Amelia to see to unpacking all of their belongings.

She could not remember the last time she had treated her maid like… well, like a maid, but for the life of her she could not summon the emotion to care. It felt as though someone had taken a dull knife and simply carved out her heart. Her chest felt hollow and empty. It hurt, as nothing had hurt before. Even when her brother had shoved her out of the apple tree on her eighth birthday and her arm had snapped in two beneath her it had not hurt like this. No, this pain was on a level she never knew existed. Her entire body ached from it, as if she had withstood a savage storm and lived to tell the tale.

What made it worse of all, what made it absolutely unbearable, was that she could blame no one but herself. Through her own, selfish actions she had lost Traverson. She had loved him and lost him, before she ever really got to have him. And it was all her fault.

Slowly shedding her clothes until she wore only her chemise, Josephine drew all of the curtains in her bedroom closed, snuffed the candles, and welcomed the dark.

What the bloody hell was he thinking?

One fortnight had passed since Traverson had last seen Josephine and every day that went by felt longer than the last. He had remained at Kensington, sulking as only grown men knew how to sulk: quietly, angrily, and with a good bottle of brandy on hand at all times.