Midnight Pleasures With a Scoundrel (22 page)
“I told you about the watch I stole,” he said.
She nodded, wanting to caution him that now was not the time for remorse, even as she wanted him to unburden his sorrows. As long as she was able, she would provide him with what strength she could.
“The irony is that I stole it because my father didn’t have one. And it was his birthday.”
She saw him blink back the tears. That the memory could bring this large, strong man to tears tore into her heart. “Oh, James.”
He shook his head as though to shake off his morose musings. “I told you the story only so you’d understand how important justice is to me. It was a damned watch. It’s value not worth my father’s life. A year in prison perhaps, a few lashes of the whip, but not his life. And Rockberry’s life is not worth yours. I’ll not let you”—he touched his thumb to her lips—”or Eleanor be hanged.”
“You can’t control the courts.”
“Don’t underestimate my influence. I’m not saying you won’t have to account for your actions, but I swear I’ll not see you hanged.”
She fought to give him a reassuring smile. She wanted to believe him. She truly did. But he was not God. He was not king. He was not nobility. He was an inspector with Scotland Yard. The son of a man who’d been hanged for thievery, regardless of his innocence. He was simply a man, even if he was the man she loved.
W
hen Emma awoke, her first thought was that she’d slept, amazingly a deep dreamless sleep. Her second was that she was alone in the bed, but not alone in the room. She sensed his presence before she located him sitting in a chair by the window, the lamp nearby providing him with sufficient light to read the journal in his lap. Although only his profile was visible to her, she could detect the deep furrow in his brow as he absorbed her sister’s account of her life and time in London. With his elbow perched on the arm of the chair, providing support, he held his chin, his forefinger stroking just below his lower lip, a lip she had an urgent desire to nibble upon.
Beyond the window the dark of night still hovered. The storm was dying down, the rain a softer patter, the wind a quieter moan.
Emma studied James as he read. He’d drawn on his trousers. Pity that. She’d never considered herself a woman who would prefer a man in all his naked glory, but James was indeed a fine specimen. He made her feel tiny, yet strong. She had power over him. He desired her. She couldn’t stop the small smile from forming. He could distinguish her from Eleanor. No one else had ever been able to tell the three sisters apart. She supposed it was odd to take such delight in his ability, but it made her feel special. Their entire life all three sisters had struggled to be seen as individuals. People thought they should wear the same clothes, should strive to be identical, but they each possessed their little quirks, their small differences, and in some cases large ones. Eleanor was headstrong, quick to anger, quick to act. Emma analyzed far too much. Elisabeth had been far too adventuresome. It was the reason their father had decided she would be the first to brave London. What a catastrophe that had been. Yet it had put into place a series of events through which she’d met James. If not for the fact that it had cost Elisabeth her life, she might have been grateful. Guiltily, a small part of her was glad for James—but the price had been so dear.
As though suddenly aware of her thoughts, he set the journal aside, rose to his feet and strode toward the bed, shucking his trousers as he neared, revealing all of his masculine glory. The smile he bestowed upon her as he slid into bed beside her caused her heart to trip over itself.
“I thought you’d never wake up,” he growled, before taking her in his arms and making her ever so thankful she had.
June 15, 1851
Tonight Cousin Gertrude escorted me to my first ball. I’m not quite certain how she is
related to us, but I daresay Father could have given me as grand an introduction into society as
she did. I don’t wish to besmirch her efforts, but I swear she knows not a soul of any importance.
How she enticed Lady Chesney into inviting us is beyond me. But invitations were extended and
we accepted. I spent the first hour sitting with Cousin while gents eyed me from a distance—not
quite sure what to make of me, I’m certain
.
Finally, well into the second hour, our hostess introduced Mr. Samuel Bentley and he
asked for the honor of a dance. He was not the sort to turn heads, but many heads did turn as he
led me onto the dance floor. He was the fourth son of a viscount, desperate enough for funds to
ask straightaway what sort of dowry my father was bestowing upon me. He laughed at the
amount, then apologized for his rudeness. He assured me that I would have a time of it securing
a husband
.
I did not doubt his words as I spent another hour becoming further acquainted with my
chair. To my shame, I even cursed Father for sending me to London. I was ill prepared for
flirtation or exuding confidence. I was the country lass stumbling about in a strange place of
unencumbered sophistication and confidence
.
I begged of Cousin to allow us to leave, but she wouldn’t hear of it. I suspected she was
enthralled with the gaiety, that it was as new to her as it was to me
.
And then he approached. I’d never seen a man so handsome, a man so charming. The
Marquess of Rockberry. He led me into a waltz, and the most boring night of my life suddenly
became the most memorable—in the blink of an eye
.
June 17, 1851
I can hardly properly hold my pen in order to write legibly. My fingers, my whole person,
are trembling with such excitement. Lord Rockberry called on me today. He brought me a dozen
roses and a tin of chocolates. Cousin was astounded by his generosity. She assures me he is one
of the most respected lords in London and that he is in a position to select his wife without
consideration of her dowry. I could not be happier nor have greater hope that I shall make a
good match and be able to provide the means for my sisters to have their own Season and secure
their own happiness
.
June 21, 1851
Lord Rockberry again called on me. He took me for a ride in his open carriage. Cousin
accompanied us. Once we arrived at Regent Park, we disembarked so that we might walk with a
little privacy and speak without Cousin hearing every word. Lord Rockberry is seeking a wife
with an adventuresome spirit and believes I might suit. He teasingly told me that he wishes to
test his theory. Without Cousin knowing we made plans to meet at midnight tomorrow. I am
breathless with anticipation
.
July 1, 1851
Lord Rockberry called. I told Cousin to inform him that I’ve taken ill
.
July 5, 1851
Lord Rockberry called again. I am still abed
.
July 10, 1851
I have asked Cousin to make arrangements so I might return home
.
July 15, 1851
I am home
.
July 20, 1851
I can see the concern in my sisters’ eyes, especially Emma’s. She has always been the
most sensitive. I have failed my family. I do not know how much longer I can live with the shame
of what transpired during that night of “adventure” with Lord Rockberry
.
August 5, 1851
I have no will to eat
.
August 8, 1851
I have no will to breathe
.
August 20, 1851
I walked to the edge of the cliffs today. How easy it would be to simply step into
nothingness. But it would break their hearts and so I must continue on.
September 1, 1851
The cliffs are calling to me again. I do not know how much longer I can resist the peace
they offer. But I know I cannot depart this earth without writing of the “adventure,” as Lord
Rockberry so blithely referred to it. Perhaps in so doing, I will find the peace I seek
.
At midnight I slipped out of the residence with Cousin none the wiser. In the alleyway
Lord Rockberry kissed me quickly and handed me up into his carriage. Excitement thrummed
through me. He whispered words to make me feel beautiful, desired. He explained that he was a
disciple of Eros, the god of sexual desire. He was a member of a secret society which initiates
women into the art of love. He told me it involved a beautiful ritual during which he would claim
me as his. He seduced me with his words, his kisses. In the carriage he plied me with wine. I
suspect now that it was laced with something that served to disorient me. I did not feel myself.
And I certainly did not act myself
.
We arrived at a residence. Inside, two ladies took me away and began to prepare me. They
removed their clothes and mine. Beautiful silver filigree circled their necks. They draped the
softest silk over me and explained what was required of me. I wanted to protest but my mouth
seemed unable to form coherent words. My will was no longer my own
.
They led me into a dark room where the only light came from flickering candles. Pillows
were piled everywhere. There were other naked ladies wearing the same silver at their throats.
Men in red cloaks wavered in and out of my vision as the two ladies escorted me to Lord
Rockberry. I heard humming, a chant.
The ladies removed my silk. I stood before him exposed. I knew I should have covered
myself in shame, but I was beyond caring. The world faded in and out. He bade me to kneel
before him. When I did, he placed the silver around my neck and told me I was now a sister of
carnality. He lay me upon a mound of pillows and took me
.
There were cheers and laughter echoing around me even as I tried to push him away. The
pain was indescribable, the intimacy barbaric. The room exploded into madness, chaos, as
others—men and women—had their way with me. I remember so little except the agony and
humiliation. I thought I’d awaken to discover it had all been a dream. But the nightmare was
real. And even though I’ve returned home, I seem unable to escape it
.
September 7, 1851
Forgive me
.
W
hen Swindler awoke, sun was spilling in through the window and he was alone. After he’d made love to her a third time, Emma slipped out of the room as he drifted off to sleep. She wanted to be sure she returned to Eleanor’s bed before her sister awoke. He rolled over onto his back, shoved his hands behind his head, grimacing when he bumped his healing wound, and stared at the ceiling. He’d finished reading the journal in the early hours. He’d heard rumors of the secret societies that engaged in depravity but had always heard that the members were willing participants in the orgies, so they’d been of no concern to him. It seemed Rockberry sought to bring a new, supposedly exciting element to the festivities. An innocent. A virgin to be sacrificed.
Swindler’s blood boiled when he thought about what Rockberry had done, the people he’d harmed, the pain he’d wrought.
Damned, arrogant bastard
. If he wasn’t already dead, he would have strangled Rockberry with his own hands.
Claybourne had killed a man for raping Frannie when she was twelve. Swindler had thought nothing as vile would ever touch him again. He’d been wrong. He’d not known Elisabeth before he read her journal, but he mourned her passing now. The storm outside had ceased, but within him a storm for further retribution was brewing. He got out of bed and walked to the window. His heart very nearly stilled at the sight of Emma standing at the edge of the cliff. He didn’t know how he knew it was her. All he could see was her back and the cloak billowing out behind her. What little wind remained from the storm toyed with her hair.
Christ! Surely she wasn’t contemplating joining Elisabeth at the bottom of the sea. Snatching up his trousers and pulling them on, he selfishly thought she couldn’t possibly be considering leaving him—not after what they’d shared last night, after he made her smile and laugh, after he brought her pleasure, after she brought him pleasure more intense than anything he’d ever experienced. Yes, she’d left him before, back in London, but now things were different. She’d left him because of her shame and secrets. She’d left him because she thought she had no choice if she wanted to escape the gallows. Now she knew differently. He grabbed his shirt, pulling it over his head as he rushed out the door and down the stairs, nearly losing his balance and tumbling in the process. Taking a quick second to get his shirt situated, he carried on and burst through the door to the outside as though her life—and his—
depended on it. He ignored the pain as his bare feet encountered tiny rocks and thorns. Afraid of startling her, of causing her to tumble over the edge, he didn’t call out to her. When he was near enough to see that she wasn’t teetering at the edge as he’d first feared, he slowed his gait and fought to regain his dignity. A bit difficult to do when his feet were bare and his shirt unbuttoned.
He was surprised that his feet pounding the earth in order that he could reach her quickly hadn’t caused it to tremble and alert her to his presence. Or perhaps she simply wasn’t yet ready to face him. Whatever the reason, as he came to stand beside her, she continued to stare out at the whitecapped sea as though it contained answers.
“Emma,” he said quietly, wanting desperately to reach for her, to draw her farther back from the edge.
“Sometimes when I stand here I can hear her laughter.”
“Elisabeth’s?”
She nodded. “I yelled at her, you know.”
“It’s not a crime to yell.”
She rolled her eyes toward the sky as though she sought salvation. “She wouldn’t tell us what happened in London. We only knew she returned home with no marriage prospects. Father had no money with which to send Eleanor and I. Selfishly, selfishly, I wanted to go so desperately, to find a husband and have children, to be a wife and a mother. I screamed at Elisabeth, told her she’d been a disappointment to us all. I had the audacity to tell her that if Father had sent me, I would have snagged a husband who could ensure that my sisters had a Season and were well looked after. I wanted a Season so frightfully badly, so stupidly. I think my words may have caused her to kill herself.”
