Potent Pleasures (44 page)

Charlotte brought Alex’s hand to her lips, kissing his palm. Her mouth curved against his hand in an irrepressible grin. “Luckily, I’ve always been fond of fools,” she said, her teasing reply half muffled by his warm skin.

“I am an idiot, a dolt,” Alex continued indomitably. “There were so many times I should have known. Do you remember when I asked you to marry me in your mother’s Chinese Salon, and afterward I touched you?”

A rosy glow suffused Charlotte’s face, but she nodded.

“You said thank you.” Alex’s voice was full of tormented self-hatred. “And I thought—fool that I am—how surprising it was that for a moment you reminded me of my garden girl, but I didn’t think any further. Because, you see, the garden girl thanked me too, and you were the only two women who were ever so courteous…. I deserve to be whipped,” he said savagely. “I caused you so much misery—”

Charlotte broke off his speech by the simple expedient of clamping her hand over his mouth.

“Don’t!” she cried. “Don’t you see … Don’t you know how happy you make me? The only thing that matters is that it was
you
. It was
you
all the time. And now you know, and what does it matter that you didn’t remember immediately? You still wanted
me
, don’t you see?” she whispered achingly. “If you had come back and you had remembered taking my virginity, I never would have been able to trust that you wanted me for myself. I would always wonder whether it was your gentlemanly sense of honor. Do you know what I remember most clearly from the time we spent in the Chinese Salon?”

Alex shook his head, mesmerized by her glowing eyes.

“You said … you said that you didn’t want to continue kissing me because you would ruin me, and you didn’t want to do that. And all I could think was thank God you didn’t remember that you had ruined me before, because it meant you wanted me now. Not just to make up for a moment’s indiscretion in a garden, but for myself.”

Alex pulled her into his arms, burying his head in her neck. “You’re too good for me,” he said. “I don’t deserve you.” There was a moment’s silence between them.

“But it wouldn’t have been like that if I had been less of a bumble-head and able to put things together,” Alex said more calmly. “In many ways the course of my whole life has been dictated by that garden girl: you. Do you know that I dreamed about you for weeks afterward? You were crying and I was trying to comfort you, or you were lying in my arms, and I was kissing you. Either way the dreams were a torment. I forced Patrick to go back to that Cyprians’ Ball with me the next Saturday, but I couldn’t find you. I went to five
ton
balls in the next two weeks, but I couldn’t find you there either. And then I went to Rome, and I found someone who looked like you … and so I married her, but she wasn’t you either. And finally when I met the daughter of a certain duke in London, even though I had no idea she was my garden girl, I wanted nothing but her. I planned to marry you about two minutes after meeting you at the ball, you know.”

He smiled down at his wife’s dazed expression. “I’m afraid, my love, that you must be my fate.”

Charlotte clung to him, relishing the feeling that came from being in his arms. And now there were no shadows between them.

“I missed you,” she whispered. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too. I missed you even when I was the most furious. Do you know, I always knew that we would be together again? Even as I raged about the house saying hideously stupid things, I knew that no matter what, I had to have you back, because you are part of my heart. Losing you would be losing myself.”

Alex’s wife smiled up at him, her clear eyes shining with love. “You couldn’t lose me, darling. Next time you storm out of the house I’ll follow you wherever you go.”

“But don’t ever leave me, Charlotte. I couldn’t bear it.”

“I won’t.”

“And I will cherish you,” Alex whispered. “Until we are old and gray: past that time, for all time.”

Charlotte made no answer to Alex’s promise, for the promises they exchanged then were silent ones, given in sweetness, taken in sweetness, remembered forever.

A Note about Potency
and the Pleasures of
Scandal

I
n 1612, the unhappy marriage of Robert Devereux, the third Earl of Essex, erupted into a prolonged and contentious scandal. His countess, Frances, declared to all and sundry that Essex was impotent and that their marriage had never been consummated. One of London’s notable gossips reported that “there was a divorce to be sued this term twixt the Earl of Essex and his lady, and he was content (whether true or feigned) to confess insufficiency in himself.” But when it came to the actual trial Essex refused to acknowledge impotence—except in matters of his wife. A group of gentlemen were invited to witness his manly potential and agreed to its general working order; a group of ladies in turn inspected a heavily veiled Frances and pronounced her a virgin. After months of acrimony King James ordered the marriage dissolved on grounds of nullity. The Lord Chamberlain himself reported (with some glee) that “it was truth that the earl had no ink in his pen.” But many London gossips firmly maintained that Frances had petitioned for divorce solely because she was in love with a dashing, handsome young lord, the Earl of Somerset, whom she married shortly after the annulment of her first marriage.

Alex is only roughly modeled on the Earl of Essex—my Earl of Sheffield and Downes is not and never was impotent—but the pleasures and dangers of scandal as depicted in
Potent Pleasures
are fully historical. The third Earl of Essex was plagued by charges of impotency throughout the remainder of his life. When his second marriage produced no children, the whispers grew louder. On the other hand, Frances was never free from scandal either. When she was accused of murder some years later, most of England linked the charge to her dubious claims of virginity.

Yet scandal and love are sometimes true bedfellows. Frances and her second husband, the Earl of Somerset, lived together until her death in 1632. Their marriage—consecrated in the midst of intense speculation—was celebrated by the poet John Donne in one of the most beautiful of English love poems:

Now, as in Tullia’s tomb one lamp burnt clear
Unchanged for fifteen hundred year,
May these love-lamps we here enshrine,
In warmth, light, lasting, equal the divine.
Fire ever doth aspire,
And makes all like itself, turns all to fire,
But ends in ashes; which these cannot do,
For none of these is fuel, but fire too.
This is joy’s bonfire, then, where love’s strong arts
Make of so noble individual parts
One fire of four inflaming eyes, and of two loving hearts
.

Look for the exciting new
novel from Eloisa James

Midnight Pleasures

Available from Delacorte Press
in August 2000

Chapter 1

London, December 1804
Brandenburg House
Mayfair, London

L
ady Sophie York, the only daughter of the Marquis of Brandenburg, had refused to marry a baron who had asked on a balcony. She had refused two honorables, a handful of sirs, and a viscount, all of whom punctiliously requested that honor in her father’s study. She had refused a marquess in the midst of a hunt, and plain Mr. Kissler at Ascot. Less fortunate young women could not fathom Sophie’s motives. In two seasons, Sophie had rejected the
ton
’s most eligible bachelors. But after tonight there would be no more proposals, hurried, paced, inarticulate, or otherwise. After tonight the uncharitable would unite in agreement: The girl had held out for a man of high rank. Lady Sophie was affianced to an earl, and she would be a countess by next season.

Sophie grimaced at her mirror, thinking of the avid faces and deep curtsies she would face at the Dewland ball that evening. Uncertainty quaked in her stomach, an unusual flutter of self-consciousness. Was this the correct gown in which to announce her engagement? It was constructed of pale silver, gossamer-thin silk. Perhaps the color would make her look washed out in the ballroom, once she was surrounded by glittering plumage, the bare breasts and crimson cheeks of the female half of the beau monde. Silver was such a nunlike color. A glint of amusement lit Sophie’s eyes. A nun would swoon at the very idea of wearing a bodice made in the French style, low-cut and caught just under the breasts with silver ribbons that wound around the bodice. And the skirt flowed narrowly past Sophie’s curves, flirting with the roundness of her hips.

Just then the Marchioness of Brandenburg swept into the bedroom.

“Are you ready, Sophie?”

“Yes,
Maman
” Sophie said, throwing away the idea of changing her gown. They were already late to the Dewland ball.

The marchioness’s eyes narrowed as she looked over Sophie’s apparel. Eloise herself was wearing a gown of mouse-colored satin embroidered with flowers and fringed at the bottom. If it wasn’t precisely hooped, it gave that impression. It resembled nothing so closely as the styles of twenty years ago, from the early years of Eloise’s marriage.

“That dress,” Eloise said with asperity, “is a disgrace.”

“Yes,
Maman
.” That was Sophie’s usual response to her mother’s sartorial comments. She gathered up her wrap and reticule, turning toward the door.

Eloise hesitated, uncertainty crossing her face. Sophie looked at her in surprise. Her mother was French and seemed to view life as a battleground in which she was the only general with a standing army. It was uncommon to see her pause.

“Tonight,” said Eloise, “it will be announced that you have accepted the hand of the Earl of Slaslow in marriage.”

“Yes,
Maman”
Sophie agreed.

There was a short pause. What could be the problem, Sophie wondered. Her mother was never short of words.

“He may desire some token of your affections.”

“Yes,
Maman.”
Sophie lowered her eyes so her mother wouldn’t see her mischievous enjoyment.

Poor Mama! She had been raised in a French convent and had likely come to the marriage bed exceedingly ill prepared. Given that Eloise had married an English marquis so obsessed by France and things French that he preferred the French spelling
marquis
to the English
marquess
, her daughter had been raised in a house thronged with French émigrés. Her nanny was French, the servants were French, the cook (of course) was French. Eloise had no idea just how earthy discussions had become in the nursery, long before Sophie had even made her debut. The last thing Sophie needed was instructions on what men wanted from women.

“You may allow him one kiss, perhaps two, at most,” Eloise said heavily. “I am sure you will understand the importance of this limitation, Sophie. I am thinking of you. Your reputation …”

Now Sophie’s eyes flashed and she looked directly at her mother, who was, however, gazing at a spot somewhere to her left shoulder.

“You have insisted on wearing gowns that are little more than scraps of tissue. Your neglect of a corset must be obvious to all, and sometimes I have wondered if you are wearing a chemise. I have many times been embarrassed by your behavior, your flirtatiousness, if one can call it that. You have the chance of an excellent marriage here and I demand that you not ruin your prospects by encouraging the Earl of Slaslow to take liberties.”

Sophie could feel her heart beating angrily in her throat. “Are you implying that my behavior has been less than correct,
Maman
?”

“I certainly would say so,” her mother responded. “When I was your age, I would no more have dreamed of spending time alone with a man than I would of going to America. No man kissed me before your father. I knew my place and what was proper to my position. You, on the other hand, have shown no respect for the position to which you were born. You have consistently embarrassed your father and myself with your fast behavior.”

Despite herself, Sophie felt a curl of mortification in her stomach. “I have never done anything out of the proper,
Maman
” she protested. “Everyone wears these clothes, and manners are more liberal than they were when you were my age.”

“I take part of the responsibility. I have allowed your extravagant escapades to continue, and I have overlooked many of your lapses. But now you are to be a countess, and what may possibly be overlooked as youthful spirits in a girl can never be done so in a countess.”

“What lapses? I have
never
allowed a man to take liberty with my person!”

“I know that chastity is an outmoded word, but it is not an outmoded concept,” her mother rejoined sharply. “Your constant joking and flirting makes you seem more accomplished than you are. In fact, Sophie, you have precisely the manners of a top-flight courtesan!”

For a moment Sophie stared at her mother in outrage, then consciously took a deep breath. “I have never done anything out of the proper,” she repeated firmly.

“How can you say that when Lady Prestlefield found you in the arms of Patrick Foakes, alone in a reception room?” her mother retorted. “When you chose to be indiscreet,
improper
, you were discovered by one of the most talkative women in all London.

“It would have been one thing if you became engaged to Foakes. But to be found kissing in a corner! You embarrassed me profoundly, Sophie. So I will tell you again—I forbid you to allow the Earl of Slaslow more than the most token gesture of affection. Any more of these heated embraces and your reputation will be ruined forever. Moreover, Slaslow will be justified in calling it off if he suspects your rackety nature.”

“Maman!”

“Your
rackety
nature,” Eloise repeated. “Which,” she added, “you inherited from your father. And he has encouraged you. From the moment he supported your study of all those languages, he fostered your unladylike nature. There is little behavior more unmaidenly than learning Latin.”

She raised her hand as Sophie began to reply. “Fortunately, that is over. When you are a countess you will be too busy running a large household to indulge yourself in such fruitless pursuits.”

Suddenly Eloise remembered her primary grievance. “Had you married Foakes, the gossip would have died, but naturally your reputation has suffered since you turned down his offer,” she continued without pause. “No one believes he was able to bring himself to scratch!” The marchioness’s tone was biting, and an ominous red flush had mounted up her neck.

“I could not accept Patrick Foakes’s proposal,” Sophie objected. “He asked me only because Lady Prestlefield walked into the room. He is a rake whose kisses mean nothing.”

“I know little about meaningless kisses,” the marchioness commented magisterially. “It would be nice if my daughter had the same delicacy of person that I have maintained. And what does it matter if Foakes is a rake? A rake can make as good a husband as any other man. He has extensive holdings—what more do you want?”

Sophie looked at the tips of her delicate slippers. It was hard to explain her aversion to rakes without making reference to her beloved papa, who made a practice of chasing every Frenchwoman who arrived in London. And given the turbulent situation in France, he had been very busy in the last seven years or so.

“I would like to marry someone who will respect me,” she said.

“Respect you! You certainly don’t try to achieve that goal in a very intelligent fashion,” her mother said, with a sharp twist of her lips. “I’ll warrant there’s no gentleman in London who doesn’t think of you as an approachable minx, if not worse. When I debuted, poetry was written in praise of my modesty, but I venture to say those verses would not apply to you. In fact,” Eloise concluded bitterly, “sometimes I think that you are entirely your father’s child—both of you destined to make me the laughingstock of London.”

Sophie took another deep breath, and this time tears began to prick the back of her eyelids.

Eloise’s expression softened. “I do not wish to be snappish, but I worry for you, Sophie. You will have an excellent husband in the Earl of Slaslow. Please do not place your engagement at risk.”

Sophie’s anger drained away, followed by a wash of guilty sympathy. Her mother endured a great deal of mortification due to her father’s flagrantly public love of Frenchwomen, and now Sophie had thoughtlessly added to the gossip. “I never meant to cause you embarrassment,
Maman
” she said quietly. “I was caught by surprise when Lady Prestlefield found me with Patrick Foakes.”

“Had you not been alone with a man, no one could have surprised you,” her mother pointed out, with irrefutable logic. “A reputation is not a trifling thing. I never thought to hear
my
daughter called a light-skirt—but that, Sophie, is what is being said about you.”

With that, Eloise turned and walked from the room, closing the door behind her.

Tears welled in Sophie’s eyes. It was not unusual for her mother to descend on a member of the household like an avenging fury out of a Greek play, although generally Sophie was able to ignore her embittered comments.

But tonight Eloise had struck a nerve. Sophie knew that she skirted the edge of propriety. Her gowns were the most daring in London and her manner was seductive.

Sophie had heard those dreary odes composed for her mother many times: “Thus from a thousand virgins, heav’nly fair,/One sees the
Diana
of the sex, whose hair—” Eloise’s hair was the same golden color as hers, but Eloise’s lay sleekly along her head, the line of her chignon never disturbed by a curl or a streamer. Sophie’s hair curled, and it rebelliously escaped from ribbons and pins. What’s more, Sophie had cut off all her hair before any other woman in London had thought of imitating the French fashion, and now that every young miss cropped her curls, she had chosen to grow hers again.

What her mother didn’t understand was how impossibly difficult it had been to turn down Patrick Foakes’s offer of marriage. She stared at herself blindly in the mirror for a moment, then sank onto the bed as she remembered the Cumberland ball two weeks ago. The glory of it when Patrick made it clear that he was stalking her. The twisting excitement in her stomach when she glanced up from the intricacies of a cotillion, and caught his glance.

Even thinking of the lazy greeting in those eyes, the way his right eyebrow flew up in silent acknowledgment, the utterly masculine arrogance of his glance made her stomach turn over. Her heart beat fast the entire evening, and excitement tingled in her limbs and weakened her knees. By ten o’clock Patrick Foakes had exerted such a pull over her that she was living for those moments when he would suddenly appear at her elbow or when she would turn in the swirl of a dance and catch a glimpse of silver-streaked black hair on the other side of the room. At supper, in the midst of a chattering crowd huddled around a small round table, her heart leaped every time his leg or arm accidently brushed hers, sending a drugging velvet excitement down her legs.

They danced together once; they danced together twice. To dance together a third time would be akin to announcing an engagement.

Sophie didn’t dare speak during their second dance, a Maltese Bransle that kept parting them and then suddenly jolting them back together. She was afraid that Patrick would guess the spinning tenderness that shivered down her body every time the figure brought them back together.

When he silently took her arm and led her out of the ballroom as if to fetch a glass of syllabub, but instead turned into a quiet room full of spindly tables and frothy chairs, she followed with no objection. Patrick propped himself against a biscuit-colored wall and looked down at her teasingly, and Sophie’s only excuse was that the emotional stimulation of the last hours had gone to her head. She impishly grinned back, behaving precisely like the wanton her mama believed her to be.