No Brighter Dream: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 3 (29 page)

“I have absolutely no idea. What happened?”

“Mary ended up in one of the kinder innkeeper’s stables where the animals were far more hospitable than the people of Bethlehem, that’s what happened. Imagine. A woman trying to have a baby, and no one would let her into his house.”

“Well … you have to understand, with everyone running around being displaced because of the taxes, the innkeepers were stretched to the limit, Ali. First come, first served and all that.” Andre rolled over onto his back and stretched his arms behind his head. “Suppose they had great pashas filling the rooms? You don’t think they’d toss one of them out to suit a mere woman in labor?” He grinned at her.

Ali threw a pillow at him in response. “I’m sure God wanted His little son to be born in a stable with the animals all around or He would have arranged a room. He even put a great star in the sky so that people could find the infant. Who would think to go looking in a stable for the son of God?”

“I assume you’re referring to the three kings bearing all those precious gifts of oils and incense?” Andre asked, his expression one of supreme innocence.

“Yes,” Ali said, “but also to the shepherds in the field, who were just as important. And all the angels too, although I suppose they would know where the baby was anyway.”

“Hmm. I suppose they must have, given all that singing they were supposed to be doing.”

“I think it must have been very beautiful. Just like home, with the bright stars clustered in the night sky, and camels and sheep and cows in the fields, and not a single glimmer of snow, except maybe on the mountaintops.” She smiled dreamily. “And maybe a nice soft breeze blowing, bearing the scent of orange blossom…”

Andre’s patience ran out. The sight of Ali sitting half-naked on the bed, her hair falling down her back, was too much for him. He hoisted himself into a sitting position and reached for her, pulling her down on top of him, spreading her hair over his arms. Oh, yes, Ali was a far better source of heat than anything else that existed at Sutherby.

“My turn,” he said, cupping the back of her head and pulling it down toward his. “Once, in a bedroom in a large and drafty house in a cold, damp country called England, which had never known the scent of orange blossoms, there was a man who very badly wanted his chatterbox wife. So to silence her, he kissed her like this.”

Andre traced the outline of her lips with his tongue, then covered her mouth with his own, tasting the sweet moist depths. Ali’s arms came around his back, her small hands stroking over his skin as she returned the kiss.

“He wasn’t sure he had her complete attention,” Andre continued, raising his head. “So he decided to be a little more blatant about the matter.” He moved his head down to Ali’s soft round breast, the nipple already hard, and he tongued it through the fine material of her nightdress.

Ali squirmed on him, her head arching back, her hands pushing hard through his hair. He took her nipple between his teeth and lightly bit down, and she gave a little cry of pleasure, which only encouraged him to do the same to the other breast.

Ali lifted her head and did exactly the same thing to his bare nipple, and he groaned.

“And then the wife,” she said softly, putting her hands on his chest, “decided to give her husband one last taste of Christmas. But you have to stay absolutely still.”

“Oh, sweet Christ,” Andre groaned, with a fair idea of what was coming.

“And no blaspheming, either,” Ali said, holding his arms down. She bent her head and suckled hard on his nipple, which nearly caused him to lose his mind. It was everything he could do to not move as Ali brushed her mouth back and forth over his chest, then moved lower over his abdomen, pushing the covers down as she went.

He didn’t feel the cold—his skin was on fire. He closed his eyes and grimaced in a monumental effort at control as Ali’s mouth found his erection. She kissed him softly, running her tongue up and down his length, her hand cupping him below as she opened her mouth and took him into its soft recesses, suckling him much as she had done his nipples, with a gentle pressure that gradually increased and threatened to send him through the ceiling.

“Mercy,” he moaned, his entire body trembling with the effort of keeping still. Ali’s soft hair swept rhythmically over his skin, only making the situation worse.

“No mercy,” Ali said, lifting her head and moving up over him. She kissed him then, her tongue stabbing in and out of his mouth, and a renewed sweat broke out on his brow as she took him in her hand and guided him between her thighs, sheathing him in her, her breasts brushing against his flaming chest as she took his full length all at once.

“Ahhh—God,” he groaned as she straightened and began to move on him in long, sweeping plunges.

“Don’t move,” she whispered again, beginning to ride him as expertly as she rode her horses, sinking down on him again and again.

Andre closed his eyes, all sensation centered in his groin, the only part of his body that had contact with Ali, and it became the center of his universe, Ali’s hot wet silky flesh sliding frenetically up and down on his. He dimly heard her cries as the world began to spiral out of his control.

Control … somewhere in the recesses of what was left of his mind he realized that Ali was doing to him what he had done to her two months before. She was not giving him a choice to do anything but submit himself to her, and yet he could have stopped her at any time.

But he didn’t want to. He finally understood what had passed between them that day and saw the stark beauty in it. And he understood that that was what Ali intended. In her own, very feminine way, she was showing him what she had felt.

In the exact moment that realization struck, Andre reared up, his hips jerking, a violent cry wrenched from him as Ali wrung the seed from his body with hers. In that exact moment, he realized what a truly fine present she had given him.

But in that moment he also knew he could never afford to return the gift of love.

L
ondon was in full bloom, which Ali thought was particularly appropriate, since Hattie was to be married in only a week’s time and would have all the beauty of April to surround her in her happiness.

Ali glanced over at her dear friend, who was picking over a selection of fabric, a frown of concentration on her face. She had a radiance about her that was unmistakable, and Ali suspected it was due to an equal combination of being in love and being relieved of her sensitivities, thanks to clever Andre.

Hattie had actually grown pretty, her eyes no longer puffy and irritated, her skin clear, her nose a delicate porcelain rather than red. It was extraordinary the difference it made, not only in the way she looked, but in her confidence.

Matthew walked about like a man in a daze, far more so than he ever had with her, and Ali was delighted to see it, for she knew that he truly was in love this time, and Matthew knew it too.

As happy as she was, Ali only wished that Andre would look at her with the same captivated, adoring expression. But she’d accepted her situation and would be an ungrateful fool to expect anything more.

“What do you think, Alexis?” Hattie said. “The blue or the green?”

“The green, by all means,” Ali answered. “It picks up the lovely color of your eyes.”

Hattie beamed. “It’s so nice to have a color other than red. But I think you’re right. Yes. The green it is.”

She went back to her consultations with the dressmaker in the fitting room, and Ali gazed out the window, wondering when Andre would be finished with his business meeting. She knew he had little patience for this sort of female thing, but he was very nice about accommodating them anyway.

Actually, he was very nice about a number of things. Even London society said so, as if it had collectively thought him incapable of being pleasant or kind. Well, he’d shown them, hadn’t he? He went everywhere with her, was amusing to her friends and attentive to her. Very attentive, Ali thought with a grin. Society talked about that too, and she hoped their ears burned, even if they had no way of knowing that he didn’t truly love her.

Andre walked into the shop just at that moment. “What has you so amused?” he asked, slipping an arm around her waist.

“Nothing much,” she replied, leaning into his weight. “I’m just happy you’re here.”

“Oh?” he said, giving her a very indecent stroke on her backside, although at least he took care to shield the gesture with his body. “Well, good. Then let’s go home and I’ll make you even happier.”

“Andre, sometimes I wonder about you,” Ali said with a smile, pushing his hand away.

“Sometimes I do too.” And then he froze as the bell rang over the door, his back stiffening. Ali absorbed the thunderous expression on his face with trepidation and slowly turned.

Only to see the huge figure of Mrs. Herringer squeeze into the shop. Ali’s hand slipped over her mouth as a thousand memories came rushing back. Mrs. Herringer yanking her arm out of its socket. Mrs. Herringer calling her awful, wicked names, Mrs. Herringer looking at her with unspeakable contempt. Ali felt ill, and a little moan inadvertently escaped her lips.

Andre instantly took her by the shoulders and turned her away. “Sit down,” he murmured. “Keep your face averted. There’s only one way to deal with this, and it’s head-on.”

Ali obeyed with alacrity, but she couldn’t help watching Andre surreptitiously, for he instantly strode over to the counter where horrible Mrs. Herringer stood fingering the samples of cloth.

Andre picked up a long runner of black bombazine. “Contemptible,” he said. “Beyond belief. If there’s one thing I cannot abide, it is shabby goods that masquerade as something they are not.”

Mrs. Herringer turned, her bosom swelling indignantly. “Do you address me, sir … oh!” Her eyes bulged. “Oh, my—Your Grace. What a happy coincidence!”

“Is it? I confess, I hadn’t thought to see you again, Mrs. Herringer.”

“Why no, indeed,” she said, her pudgy hand fluttering at the neckline of her dress. “But of course everyone knows of your return and your marriage. My congratulations.”

Andre gave her a wintry smile. “Thank you.”

“Oh, my, yes,” Mrs. Herringer said, encouraged. “Why, everyone speaks so fondly of your dear duchess.”

Andre rubbed the comer of his mouth. “Do they? I suppose that’s because my wife is socially adept as well as eminently likable.”

“Well, naturally,” Mrs. Herringer cooed, not seeing the trap directly in front of her. “A dear girl they say, and pretty as a picture.”

“I wonder,” Andre said contemplatively, “what ‘everyone’ would have said if I’d married a Turkish whore.”

Ali nearly fell off her chair.

“I—ah … oh,” Mrs. Herringer spluttered. “Oh, Your Grace, you tease.”

“No. I don’t tease, Mrs. Herringer. I am most sincere. Do you suppose only English people share your aversion to those from foreign lands, or is bigotry and cruelty a universal trait?”

Her mouth gaped open and she gasped like a landed fish. “If you refer to—”

“I assure you, it was merely a hypothetical question,” Andre said as Hattie came out of the fitting room. “Hello, my dear. Are you ready to leave?” He held out his arm and Hattie took it, looking up at him with a puzzled expression.

“Where’s A—” she started to say, but Andre cut her off.

“I thought we’d stop for a cream on the way home,” he said, meeting Ali’s eyes over Hattie’s head. He nodded imperceptibly toward the door.

Ali saw precisely what Andre was up to, and she rose and walked quickly out of the shop while Mrs. Herringer stared Hattie up and down with her hideous bulging eyes.

“Come along then,” Andre said. “I find I am impatient to be away, and the carriage is waiting. Good day, Mrs. Herringer.”

“Good day, Your Grace,” Mrs. Herringer said, watching the duke pull his bride out of the shop, a hand trembling at her ample bosom. She didn’t know whether to be offended or thrilled, so she settled for the latter.

“Fancy that,” she said gustily as the modiste’s assistant appeared from the back. “I’ve finally seen the celebrated duchess. But no one said anything about her being a redhead.”

“The Duchess of Montcrieff?” the assistant replied. “Good heavens no. That was her friend, Miss Charleton. The duchess has dark hair.” She looked around, puzzled. “But where did Her Grace go? She was here only a moment ago.”

Mrs. Herringer waddled to the window and peered out at the carriage that had pulled up. Sure enough, the duke was helping a young, dark-haired woman inside.

Mrs. Herringer ogled the lucky woman whom all of London talked about, but could see nothing but her back. She was desperate to get a look at the girl who had so quickly landed the black duke and stolen his heart in the process. She’d heard nothing else for months on end now.

And then the little duchess turned her head, smiling up at her husband for one brief moment before disappearing inside, and a strangled gurgle emerged from Mrs. Herringer’s throat.

“No … No, it’s not possible,” she said as the carriage door closed and it rolled away. She sank down onto a chair, fanning herself wildly with her handkerchief.

“Madam? You look unwell,” the assistant said. “May I bring you some water?”

“No. No, thank you. I just—it’s nothing. I must have been mistaken. Yes. I’m sure I was mistaken. A momentary trick of the light.” If there was one thing she was sure of, it was that Catholic dukes did not marry their heathen Turkish whores.

But on the other hand … maybe this duke really had. He was queer enough, and it would explain the swift courtship. Maybe the brat had been pregnant after all when he sent her to England, and they had a love child tucked away somewhere. Oh, it was scandalous!

She really couldn’t wait to spread the word. She’d be the envy of all her friends with such a deliciously ripe piece of gossip. And wouldn’t
that
put the chit in her place?

The duke had some nerve, masquerading a Turkish savage as a decent God-fearing English duchess. Oh, indeed, she’d show him, wouldn’t she just? Bigotry indeed.

Andre wondered what the buzz was about when he and Ali arrived at the Looleigh ball. He was accustomed by now to a general buzz accompanying them wherever they went, but this one was a little louder and a little more speculative than usual.

“What have you done now?” he murmured in Ali’s ear as they were announced. “Is your dress the latest in Parisian designs?”

“It’s the same one I wore two weeks ago,” Ali replied with a mischievous smile. “Maybe that’s what’s causing such a stir.”

“Ah, they must think me bankrupt,” Andre said, taking her arm and leading her down the stairs. “Poor sorry me, unable to afford to buy you a new dress.”

But it was Matthew who finally clued Andre in. “My God, have you heard the gossip?” he whispered, finding him an hour later and drawing him to one side.

“No, and I’d like to know what in hell is going on,” Andre said, thoroughly exasperated. “I’ve never had such sidelong looks cast my way. Ali seems oblivious, but something’s up.”

“It certainly is,” Matthew said. “They’re saying that you were—that you … that you and Ali were together in Turkey.”

Andre’s brow snapped down. “What do you mean?” he demanded.

“Oh, not the truth. They’re saying that she was your Turkish doxy.”

Andre stared at him in disbelief. “That damned Herringer woman…” he said, the light dawning.

“They’re saying that she had your child years ago, and you’ve hidden it away somewhere in England.”

Andre slowly shook his head. “What?”

“Yes,” Matthew said despondently. “I’ve said it’s all nonsense of course, but it’s the talk of the moment.”

“I can imagine,” Andre said, a grin breaking out on his face. And then he threw his head back and roared with laughter, knowing full well everyone in the room was watching. “How perfectly wonderful. Ah, Matthew, how absolutely marvelous. The Herringer bitch couldn’t have shot herself in the foot more successfully. Where’s Ali?”

“She’s talking with Shakelford and his wife. I don’t think she has any idea.”

Andre nodded. “Perfect. Shakelford’s wife is ideal for my purposes. She’ll have this new version out to everyone near and far with no time to spare.”

He found Ali within a matter of moments. “I beg your pardon,” he said, interrupting the conversation. “But I have just heard something of the utmost urgency, which I think my wife needs to know about instantly.”

Lady Shakelford’s eyes snapped to attention. Her husband merely looked uncomfortable. “Alexis,” he said, using the name he called her in public, “are you aware that we have had an illegitimate child ferreted away somewhere in England for the last five years or so?”

Ali’s reaction was exactly what he had hoped for. She blinked, then burst into peals of laughter. “Oh?” she said. “Is that a variation on the story that I landed you by paying off a priest to invoke unholy rites?”

“Something like that,” he said. “Better yet, though, did you know you were Turkish?”

Ali tilted her head. “Oh, but did I forget to tell you?” she said without missing a beat, and he liked her more than ever in that moment. “I was born in a harem, the child of a sultan.”

“Well, you can’t have stayed too terribly long in the harem, because according to local gossip I moved you into mine.”

Ali’s hand went to her mouth. “I forgot that too. Did I like it?”

“Naturally,” he said easily, admiring her composure, although he could tell by a subtle little flash in the back of Ali’s eyes that she was alarmed.

“Oh, good,” she said. “But then how is it that we hid a child in England if we were so busy cavorting in Turkey?”

“I’m not entirely sure of the details myself. But we must have done an awfully good job, since neither of us knows anything about it.” He smiled apologetically at the Shakelfords. “Obviously we’re both terribly forgetful.”

Lady Shakelford tittered. “Apparently so, Duke. One doesn’t ordinarily misplace one’s children. I suppose I should be shocked, but the two of you always do have the most extraordinary conversations.”

“I suppose that’s what comes of being a Turk,” Ali said, looking at Andre innocently. “Do I make a good one?”

“Brilliant,” Andre said with a tender smile. “If you’ll excuse us, I’m going to ask my wife to dance.”

“Oh, Andre,” Ali whispered against his chest the moment he’d pulled her into the waltz. “What has that awful woman gone and said?”

“The absolutely perfect thing if she had to say anything at all. Now smile, sweetheart. We have one hell of an evening to carry off.”

And Ali did, Andre reflected later as he held her sleeping figure in his arms. But then, he was beginning to think that Ali could carry off just about anything.

“And there she was, Jo-Jean, as hideous as ever,” Ali said, pouring him a cup of tea while she enthusiastically filled him in on all their news, “and just as stupid. Andre insulted her right and left, and most everything went straight over her horrible head. Unfortunately, she still made the connection somehow, for the story has been flying about since last week.”

Jo-Jean stirred his spoon in his cup. “What does Andre say about all of this?”

“He’s annoyed, but he’s not really concerned,” Ali said. “He just laughs it off publicly as the ravings of a demented old woman. Privately, I think he’d like to hang, draw, and quarter her.”

“Hmm. And how are you handling it?”

“Oh, it doesn’t bother me, not really. The story is so outrageous as to be ridiculous, especially the part about the child I’ve hidden away. It’s her word against ours, and Mrs. Herringer has no influence, whereas Andre has a great deal.” She shrugged. “Who is really going to believe I was Andre’s Turkish whore?”

“No one in his right mind,” Joseph-Jean said. “But it is a nuisance. Ah, well.”

Ali grinned at him. “Can you imagine what would happen if I opened my mouth and let a stream of Turkish fly? I could probably bring half of London to its knees in one fell swoop.”

Jo-Jean laughed. “From what I hear you’ve done that already. Andre says you’re the toast of the town.”

“Andre’s prejudiced,” she replied.