Potent Pleasures (18 page)

“The real question is,” Lady Skiffing said in lowered tones, “who is that child?”

“Yes.” Lady Prestlefield pursed her lips thoughtfully. The two ladies were sitting in a barouche, barely wide enough for them and their petticoats. They could hardly ask the Earl of Sheffield and Downes to join them, not that he would ever join two old ladies anyway.

Suddenly Sarah Prestlefield laid a hand on her friend’s whip, signaling her to bring the barouche to a stop. “Look!” she breathed through scarcely opened lips.

At the top of the drive Alexander Foakes had encountered the two reigning beauties of the London
ton
, Charlotte Daicheston and Sophie York, and Lady Charlotte seemed to be scolding the earl. It was hideously vexing to be so close and not be able to hear. Lady Skiffing coaxed her horses to a slow amble and they drew closer without the three young people noticing.

“It is not a question of convenience,” they heard Charlotte say as they got close enough. Her eyes were flashing magnificently; she really was a lovely girl, Lady Skiffing thought. “That child is not safe!” Lady Charlotte continued.

Well, there all of London agreed with her, of course. The two ladies exchanged significant glances. They had both given their spouses an appropriate number of children who were housed and cared for out of sight. Out of sight
and
out of danger, one might add. It chilled the bones to see a young thing perched on top of a great beast like that black monster of the earl’s.

Charlotte had no thought about the proprieties of children in the park. The sight of a smiling Pippa wiggling vigorously within her father’s arm and drumming her heels on the back of a jittery stallion awakened all the maternal feelings she had buried three years ago. She slipped off her own horse, Jamaica, handing the reins to her groom.

“Give her to me,” she said, standing close to Bucephalus’s hugely muscled shoulder.

Alex looked down at her in amazement. What the devil? Pippa was perfectly safe with him.

“Bucephalus is very sedate, Lady Charlotte,” he said with just a slight edge to his tone. “He’s as calm as a cow, I assure you.”

“Nevertheless,” Charlotte replied, “Pippa is not safe. I shall walk to your house holding Pippa and you may follow. It’s not far.”

Alex’s eyes crinkled with amusement. His girl had revealed she knew where he lived. She remembered Pippa’s name. She was showing maternal feelings. No matter that it made him feel like a bear with a sore head to have his decisions about Pippa questioned.

He shrugged. “You do remember what she’s like with women?”

“She will be fine,” Charlotte said firmly. She reached up her arms, and Alex dropped his daughter straight into them.

Pippa took one look at Charlotte’s face and opened her mouth to emit a titanic scream. Charlotte immediately put her down at the edge of the walk. Then she waited for a few seconds. When Pippa took a breath, Charlotte said, “I’m the not-nanny, Pippa. Don’t you remember me? I’m
not
a nanny.”

Pippa’s mouth closed as she thought about that. “My name is Charlotte—the not-nanny,” Charlotte hastily repeated. “Now, I am going to pick you up and carry you so that you can see your father on his horse, would that be all right?”

Pippa didn’t say anything, but she didn’t scream either. Charlotte swiftly gathered up the little girl and held her against her shoulder, so she faced backward and could see her father. Pippa gurgled approvingly. Charlotte started walking.

Sophie was still sitting on her horse, stunned. One minute they had been on their way home and the next Charlotte was biting at the man she might well marry, and then she was carrying off his brat. Sophie slid off her own horse, giving Alex an admonishing look. He looked like the devil himself, about to burst out laughing.

When Sophie caught up with Charlotte, she peered about the baby’s round bottom and many petticoats. To her relief, Charlotte didn’t look furious anymore, just amused.

“Have you had anything to do with babies?” Charlotte asked, quietly enough so that Alexander Foakes, pacing behind them on Bucephalus, couldn’t hear her.

“Never,” Sophie said. “I’m an only child, you know.”

“Well, this one is rather wet,” Charlotte said. “And she’s much heavier than she looks.”

“It’s only about four more streets,” Sophie said encouragingly. “Why don’t I take her for a while?”

“She won’t agree.” Charlotte grimaced. “Pippa is terrified of women.”

Sophie cast her a sidelong glance. Charlotte was reflexively cuddling the child, her hand smoothing the soft curls at the nape of Pippa’s neck. Sophie smiled to herself.

They left the bronze gates of Hyde Park behind them and set off down Hurston Street. Alex lived in Grosvenor Square, only three streets from the entrance to the park. Sophie held up her skirts as they picked their way through rubbish and crowds of people, the odd little band of grooms, horses, and one earl, still mounted, attracting not a little attention.

“Well, Charlotte,” Sophie said,
sotto voce
, “if you don’t marry Alexander Foakes after this, the gossips will probably have an apoplexy.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Charlotte raised her head. She had been rubbing her cheek on the baby’s round head and whispering nonsense to her, and Pippa seemed to like it, since she was giggling.

“Lady Skiffing’s barouche just drove by and believe me she didn’t miss a single detail. You’re holding Foakes’s child, and he is on a horse behind you, with a face like thunder. And she had Sarah Prestlefield with her, and even my mama, who claims Lady Prestlefield as a close friend, says she’s the most fiendish gossip in London. Lady Prestlefield always announces that whatever tattle she knows is
certainly
untrue, and then she repeats it. You should have seen her bonnet peeking out from the side of the carriage, Charlotte!”

Charlotte didn’t know what to think, so she just concentrated on crossing the street. Alex, riding in the street next to the sidewalk, had also seen Lady Prestlefield’s bonnet emerging gracelessly from a barouche. He grinned, the last fragments of his ill humor disappearing. Perhaps gossip and Charlotte’s soft heart would take care of his marriage problem for him.

At that moment one of London’s many street sweepers, a little boy of about nine years old, darted into the street just before Bucephalus’s foreleg. The boy alone would never have upset his horse, Alex later thought, but he was followed by a burly fruit seller from whom he had just snatched an apple. The boy slipped in front of Bucephalus; the fruit seller directly collided with his shoulder. And just to his left a hackney coach driver narrowly missed the fleeing boy by jerking up the reins of his two poorly fed, irritable horses. They both reared in the air to a tremendous jangling of reins and hardware.

It was too much for Bucephalus. He and his master had been out twice today and so far he had been given no opportunity to stretch his legs. And he had had a very uncomfortable walk as Pippa drummed her feet and pulled his mane. He trumpeted loudly and reared straight in the air, his front hooves pawing the air.

“What the devil!” Alex said furiously. He reflexively shortened the reins and leaned forward with his other hand to grab Bucephalus’s bridle. Bucephalus, a well-trained horse, thudded back down to the ground immediately. But Alex straightened only to meet the amused eyes of his beloved, who had paused on the sidewalk to watch.

Alex stared at her for an instant. He knew she would be wild in his arms; he sensed it when he kissed her in the park. But now she looked as demure as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. His mouth twisted in a rueful grin and he jumped off Bucephalus, throwing the reins to Charlotte’s groom.

“Let me take that plump pullet,” he said easily, when he reached Charlotte and Sophie on the sidewalk.

Charlotte had been very pleasantly thinking that she must be getting used to Alex, because her heart was beating normally, and she felt absolutely like herself. But when he reached out his arms and took the child, his eyes twinkled down at her in such a way that all her newly found calm fell to pieces and she felt a blush creeping up her cheekbones.

Sophie, never one to miss an opportunity, nipped back and signaled to her groom to toss her back up on her horse.
“Au revoir,”
she said gaily. “I must return to my
maman
now. No, no, I’ll be perfectly all right with Philippe. Charlotte, I will see you tonight.” She bowed her head politely to Alex and edged off into the crowded street, followed by her groom.

At first Charlotte felt paralyzed with shyness, walking next to Alex with all of London doubtlessly watching them. But Pippa, who spent the time on Charlotte’s shoulder trying to get Alex’s attention, now turned her head, laid it lovingly on her papa’s shoulder, and proceeded to flirt wildly with Charlotte. Charlotte laughed out loud. Alex remained prudently silent.

They walked past the road to Grosvenor Square and into Albemarle Square, where Charlotte lived, before she really even noticed. At her step she held out her hand coolly.

“Sir.”

Alex inclined his head. “Forgive me for not bowing. I’m afraid if I bow the wet patch on my shoulder will become apparent.”

Charlotte giggled despite herself. Alex caught her wrist in his free hand, pulling her hand up to his mouth. Rather than kiss the back he put her palm to his lips. Charlotte paled. The joyful glow she felt in her belly that morning spread tinglingly through her body.

“I shall see you tonight,” Alex said in a velvety deep voice, his eyes on hers.

Charlotte didn’t trust herself to say anything, so she drew her hand from his, nodded silently, and walked up her stairs. At the top she stopped, struck by a sudden thought. She turned about, her eyes pleading.

“You won’t get back up on that horse, will you, my lord?”

Alex looked at her and then at Pippa.

“No,” he said. “No, I won’t take Pippa on Bucephalus again.”

He smiled at her in such a way, Charlotte thought as she slipped past Campion at the door. It made his eyes crinkle; it spoke of … oh, kisses. Kisses and more.

Chapter 9

E
loise York, the Marchioness of Brandenburg, slowly descended the stairway of her husband’s town house, irritably smoothing her elbow-high gloves. She was displeased, she thought. Highly displeased. Eloise was a woman who understood her own consequence. She had an acute sense of propriety, a quality of which she was very proud. And somehow, through the cruelty of God, she had been given a wanton, silly chit for a daughter. When she was Sophie’s age she dressed only in white and bent her head docilely whenever a parent entered the room. She never met her father’s eye until she married. But Sophie! Had there been a moment when she didn’t boldly meet her mother’s eye
and
refuse to do whatever small thing her mama requested?

Take this afternoon, for example. When she, Eloise, had announced that they were to attend a tea party given by the Honorable Lydia Bingley, Sophie flatly refused, saying that she had scheduled an appointment with her tutor in Portuguese. Eloise couldn’t even think how many times she had pronounced that a young lady need only study how to find a husband. But Sophie obstinately kept refusing offers of marriage, and learning new languages.

The marchioness took a large, calming breath. Her eye skittered over her ensemble. At least
she
looked perfect. A trifle old-fashioned, perhaps, but she did not approve of the new French fashions. She felt sure her own dear mother—so stern and unyielding in her moral convictions—would forgive her disloyalty to the latest French garments. No, she would never accept these waistless dresses. And she would never exchange her sturdy corset for one of the newfangled light corsets. Not that Sophie appeared to be wearing even a light corset! There wasn’t room under that nightdress she was pleased to call a gown. Eloise’s eye kindled again.

She had reached the entranceway and stood there impatiently, one slipper patting the marble floor under her wide taffeta skirt. Where
was
Sophie? The girl insisted on visiting the theater—Drury Lane too, where all the world was sure to see her—and since she apparently planned to attend the theater half-naked, she might as well present herself on time.

George emerged from the library, and Eloise cast a sharp eye over him. She knew what he was doing. Tossing off a bit of brandy, no doubt. Well, Shakespeare was difficult, and he’d been good enough to change his plans when she realized just how much attention they were going to receive tonight. Drat that girl! She didn’t even know what made her feel the more annoyed—that silly chit upstairs, dressed in a transparent napkin, or her sillier friend Charlotte, entertaining the courtship of a thoroughly ineligible earl. A shame, that’s what it was. A real shame. If there had been any other impediment, she would have advised marriage. But with no chance of children, there was no point to marrying. No, it was the twin brother who was the interesting target now. As soon as he emerged from wherever he’d gone—Borneo, wasn’t it? or India—she intended to make Sophie marry him. It was
his
child who would inherit the title, obviously. Goodness sakes, she thought a bit complacently, if I were Adelaide I’d get my daughter away from Alexander Foakes as fast as might be.

There was a whisper of silk and Sophie was standing beside her. “Lud!” her mother said peevishly. “I didn’t hear you coming. Undoubtedly because you aren’t wearing enough clothing to wake a mouse. You
are
wearing a petticoat, aren’t you?” Luckily Eloise turned away before seeing Sophie’s grin. In fact, Sophie was wearing a chemise, but it was made of the finest muslin, and she had dampened it as well.

Her father loomed up behind her shoulder as their butler helped Sophie into a velvet evening cloak. “No antics tonight, girl,” he said, his eyebrows curling fiercely.

“Oh, no indeed, sir,” Sophie responded demurely, twinkling up at her father.

Despite himself, George relaxed. His wife always took things so seriously. Perhaps she was blowing all of this gossip business out of proportion.

It was only when they entered their box, George ushering his daughter and her beautiful friend, and then his wife, to their seats, that he realized just how correct his wife actually was. It had been quite a while since he heard a true hush fall on the audience at Drury Lane. But it fell like a cool snow over all the upturned faces, and was instantly replaced by a rising tide of whispering voices and shuddering fans. Lord, he thought. It was going to be a long night. He couldn’t stand Shakespeare in the first place—he didn’t care how many ballads they added; it made him deuced sick to his stomach. And now he foresaw a very ugly interval as well. Probably be swamped by beaux, he thought gloomily. Well, looking at his daughter and Lady Charlotte, seated in the front of the box, certain to be. And then there’s that earl. Bound to be here. It looked as if the whole world had decided to see this blasted play on the same night.

Charlotte sat quietly in the front of the box, trying not to furl and unfurl her fan too many times. She was wearing Madame Carême’s white gown with the black ribbons. Somehow since she bought it—was it only a few months ago?—it seemed to have become smaller, or her bosom had become significantly bigger. She felt as if she were falling out of it. And the white! Why didn’t she notice how delicate the fabric was when she ordered the gown? Even now she fancied she could see the pink of her leg through the cloth and her petticoat, which was itself made of handkerchief cloth.

She looked over at Sophie and a small smile crept to her mouth. Sophie might be petite but she wasn’t small on top, and she too was wearing a very daring empire-style gown. The bodice was made of midnight blue fabric and appeared to be about two inches at the widest spot. Sophie caught her glance and impudently winked at her.

“Don’t you love making an uproar?” she murmured behind her fan.” I vow, Charlotte, if I didn’t love you so much anyway, I would insist that we become friends, because we must sit together. If only out of kindness, so the gossips don’t gain a crick in their necks by turning from your box to mine!”

“Oh, Sophie!”

“Of course they are really all looking at you, not at me. I am only gaining celebrity by association,” Sophie said sadly. “Oh, where is an earl for me?” She rolled her eyes up to the heavens. “Send me a notorious lover—please!”

“He is
not
my lover!”

“Oh, yes? After you walked down the street holding his child
and
looking at him with your heart in your mouth? Then you are leading him astray, and woe betide the woman who leads that particular man into a blind alley.” She nodded down to their right.

Charlotte watched, fascinated, as Alex strode into the Sheffield box, bowing to his acquaintances. He appeared to be accompanied by a small party; she recognized the Marquis de Valconbrass and his sister. She felt a sudden stab of jealousy as Alex escorted Daphne to a place at the front of the box.

Sophie’s strong, small hand descended on her wrist. “Stop watching him, Charlotte!”

Charlotte settled back in her chair, fanning her suddenly pink face.

“Pooh!” Sophie said. “I can’t trust you for a minute! Even a fourth part of French blood would have stopped you from being so obvious.”

Charlotte glared at her fiercely. Sophie wrinkled her nose at her. “Don’t you carp at me, Charlotte Daicheston!” She lowered her voice. “You want him, don’t you?”

Startled, Charlotte nodded.

“Well, you can’t have him if he isn’t capable,” Sophie said practically. “It would not be a successful marriage.”

“I don’t think, I mean, I think he is,” Charlotte said equally softly.

“Well, you have to find out,” Sophie said. “You have to
know
, and then you can go ahead and accept him. I assume he has proposed?” She waited, one eyebrow raised.

Charlotte nodded.

“What a woman! You have two earls after you, and what else—a score of mere counts and barons, and a few lowly sirs.”

Charlotte laughed. She was keeping her eyes fixed on Sophie in order to avoid meeting the eyes of all the people who seemed to be staring in her direction. And to stop herself from stealing another glance at Alex.

The noise of tuning fiddles finally stopped and Richard Sheridan, the proprietor of the Drury Lane Theatre, walked out before the red velvet curtain. There was a faint dimming of the audience’s chatter.

Charlotte’s mind wandered as Sheridan talked on, boasting of the wonderful changes he had made to
King Lear
… now fit for a modern audience … fit for modern propriety, love of gaiety, blah, blah. She kept her eyes fixed on the railing in front of her. She had the strong sense that Alex had no plans to attend the theater until Sophie dropped the name of the play they were seeing. She had never seen anyone in the Sheffield box except Alex’s aunt, Henrietta Collumber.

At the moment she felt as if he must be looking at her. Every nerve in her body signaled that his eyes were on her. The blood was not dancing in her veins—it was racing. Insanity, Charlotte said to herself. Insanity! And just how was she supposed to ascertain whether Alex was impotent or not? She raised her head as the curtains of the theater swung open. Willy-nilly her eyes slid to the right. Alex was sitting perfectly easily, his long legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles. He actually had his back to her, and his head was bent close to Daphne Boch’s smooth blond locks. It wasn’t jealousy Charlotte felt; it was hatred. She jerked her eyes away. The last thing she wanted was for Alex to catch her glaring at his—friend.

She straightened her back. Two could play at that game. She leaned forward slightly and glanced about the theater. There was Braddon … but Braddon wasn’t anyone to make Alex jealous, unfortunately. Her eyes slid over a number of men whom she might summon in an instant, and then her eyes brightened. Will Holland, looking like a great blond giant, was sitting in a box down to the left. He raised his head and she threw him a slight smile, an enchanting, beckoning smile.

Unfortunately that was the moment when Alex finally allowed himself to throw a glance over his left shoulder at the Brandenburg box. He stared for a moment, his eyes hard. Damn it!

Will’s reaction was about the same. He had spent the last week setting up a useful flirtation with a rich tradesman’s daughter, and she wasn’t even too unattractive. But looking up at the unbelievably sensual duke’s daughter, her black curls deliberately tousled as if she just emerged from bed, he felt all his resolution of the last week fade away. Perhaps Charlotte’s parents had warned her away from Alex. He cast a sapient eye at his old friend, who appeared to be whispering into the ear of that French miss, Daphne Boch.

If he went up to Charlotte’s box during intermission, it might spoil the game with Miss van Stork. And she wasn’t bad; he might never find another heiress this bearable. Chloe van Stork sat quietly next to him. She had russet hair, not a bad color, and a slim body, he thought. Her clothing was abominable—she was wearing some kind of thick stuff that looked durable. Will shuddered slightly. She was probably even wearing one of those huge old corsets made out of whalebone, given the stiffness of her upper back. Nothing could be further from Charlotte’s gossamer French gowns.

Suddenly Miss van Stork turned her head and looked straight at him. “Are you going to go?” She nodded up toward the Brandenburg box.

Will gaped at her. She has lovely white teeth, he thought irrelevantly.

“I saw that woman—it’s Charlotte Daicheston, isn’t it?—I saw her smile at you. I think she would like you to visit her box.”

Will just stared back, nonplussed. Chloe van Stork turned her attention back to the stage, where two tumblers and a juggler had just left, clearing the way for the play itself. Will studied Chloe’s calm, serious profile, trying to decide what she thought about Charlotte’s smile. Did she even understand what conclusions would be drawn by society if he disappeared from her father’s box and reappeared next to Charlotte? He felt strangely reluctant to drop the flirtation now, when it seemed to be bearing fruit. He had had dinner with Chloe’s parents and herself that evening, and this was the first time he had accompanied them to a public event. He’d be a fool to let a Golden Fleece slip through his fingers because Charlotte Daicheston whimsically decided to smile at him.

Suddenly Chloe turned back to him. “Go! Go!” she said fiercely. Will gaped again. She waved her hand impatiently.

Feeling like a chastised puppy, Will courteously drew himself to his feet and bowed to her and her parents, murmuring something about greeting some acquaintances. A few minutes later he appeared in the Brandenburg box, to the great satisfaction of the audience. There was a rustle of chatter. This was going to be an even more interesting evening than anyone had anticipated.

Charlotte sweetly held out her hand to him, and even the stiff marchioness greeted him kindly. To her mind anyone was better than that abominable earl. Will pulled up a chair and sat just behind Charlotte, whispering a few quips that made her laugh. She laughed overmuch, he thought, given the quality of his jokes. He looked over at Sophie. She had her delicate eyebrows raised and was looking rather amused. Will felt suddenly impatient.