Powder of Love (I) (24 page)

“Rosalie?”

She didn’t want to move her face from the safe spot between the edge of his starched shirt and the even stiffer white waistcoat, so her voice came out muffled. “The doctor might like to know,” she said, trying to sound calm, “a knock on the head and fainting aren’t the only things to mute the effects of the powder. Shock rather works, such as seeing one’s mother naked and doing…various things also has a sobering effect.”

“My poor Rosalie.”

She shook her head, but not too hard. He’d cupped her head against him, and she didn’t want to dislodge his hand. “I have known of her nature for years. I haven’t been horribly shocked, you know. Just slightly. More than enough, I hope.” She pulled in a lungful of him and knew she was still under the influence, because the smell roused her, made her want to unfasten his clothes and get at the source. Her mouth on his cock.

But once again, she could think.

“The doctor is here,” she began. “Wait. You know that because you were in the room when he arrived. He’s very sympathetic and gentle.”

“Did he do anything to you?”

She did like the way his rich voice vibrated through her, right down to her belly. “He embraced me. But very sweetly and not demanding.”

“Huh.”

She dragged her mind back to her guests. “We needn’t worry about the people in that parlor. None of them will be in danger. The garden?”

“Hawes is at the back gate, making sure no one leaves,” he said.

“Heavens, I’d completely forgotten about Miss Renshaw.”

“Yes, I think she’s with him.”

“I hope he can keep his mind on the task.” She recalled the night she’d first witnessed copulation—so many pumping bottoms ago. Then she remembered the fiercely protective Hawes on Coney Island. “They’ll be married, I think. And if it weren’t for the powder, they’d never have discovered that they suit.”

“Do they suit?” He’d gently pushed her away and was summoning a footman who loitered near the dining room door.

Would she hear the sneering tone in his voice if she weren’t so alive to every detail of him? Of course she would. She had from the start. Disapproving Mr. Reed. Why on earth did she have to fall in love with him? Because he laughed with her. Because of what he could do to her body. Because of the way he could startle her, often by not being disapproving after all.

“Rosalie.” He spoke sharply. “You’re drifting again.”

“How do you know?”

“Your eyes grow heavy and so does your smile.”

“Never mind me,” she said. “You were trying to do something, weren’t you? I can’t recall.”

“Find you,” he said.

“I’m well. I think I’ll go search the bedrooms.” That’s where she would have gone if she’d been a guest in this state, all proprieties lost.

“Good idea. Take a footman or the doctor with you. No, take a maidservant. And perhaps a footman. Never mind. On second thought, I’ll go with you.”

“You and I on a bed. No stockings this time.” She hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

“Ah damn. You should go take some medication from the doctor. I’ll go alone,” he said, still in that spiky tone.

“If you find ladies, I might help then.”

“Come on,” he said and strode quickly away. Such long legs. Had she seen his legs? She’d examined his belly and chest and cock. Especially his cock. She’d have to taste him next time. And she’d have to run her hands over the muscles in his legs.

Next time? Enough of her sanity returned that the phrase seemed ridiculous. He seemed to loathe her. Perhaps in the morning she’d loathe herself, but now it seemed laughable to suppose she could ignore the screaming need. Not act upon it again. Yes, she could control it. But pretend such a thing didn’t roar through every fiber of her being? She might as well deny the existence of her arms and legs.

She sighed and went after him, first pausing at the bottom of the stairs to rip off the shredded stockings, and for a moment, run the cooling silk between her fingers. Oh, and the garter too.

She would have kept on loosening and removing more layers under her gown, but Gideon reappeared at the landing. “Are you coming?” he asked.

She dropped the stockings, the garters, the starched petticoat, and went up after him, pressing her toes against the cool, polished wood on the stairs.

He opened and closed doors swiftly, and she trailed after him, feeling useless. At her room, he stopped and stared, then closed the door when she drew near.

“It is your friend Mr. Wentworth,” he whispered. “And the lady who sat on his other side.”

She wrinkled her brow. “Mrs. Lark? She’s at least fifty.”

“Is her husband here?”

“She’s a widow. Mrs. Lark and Mr. Wentworth.” A giggle rose in her throat, and she darted ahead of him to the next door—her mother’s room. “Mr. Wentworth and Mrs. Lark. I hope they enjoy themselves.”

He’d caught up with her. “Please, allow me.”

She let him set her aside and peer into rooms only because it seemed important to him. It gave her a chance to watch his shoulders shift under the dark jacket as he opened doors, pushed his head into the rooms, and closed the doors again.

“No one,” he reported.

Two servants, hearing them, caught up with Gideon, who sent them to search the servants’ quarters at the top and back of the house.

She attempted to engage Gideon in conversation, but he was too busy with his work and didn’t seem to want to talk about the violin music floating on the wind or the strange way the lamplight made deep shadows in the corridor.

At last they were trotting down the back staircase. A great weariness had seized her. She wanted to go to her room and throw the covers over her head. She couldn’t as long as Mr. Wentworth and Mrs. Lark were using the bed.

She wondered what would happen if they should fall asleep and then wake up together. “What should we do when they come to their senses? If they forget what they did. I told Emily—Miss Renshaw—what she’d done. She thought it was a dream. But do I need to tell them all?” Again she didn’t know that she spoke aloud. “I might not remember myself.”

“I don’t know the answer to that.” At least he didn’t ignore her. They came out in the back corridor. He looked around, then said, “For some, like Mr. Trevner, I think it best if no one mentions it. The situation is fraught with perils for him.”

She tried to recall and, with a spasm of merriment, did. “He was playing leapfrog with Mr. Gramble.”

“Exactly,” said Gideon.

“I wonder if I’ll recall you. In the library,” she said and smiled wide at that lovely memory. “Twice. You will be the only one who can remind me if I forget.”

He didn’t answer. They came out into the kitchen, which had contained a couple of harried scullery maids. They looked up and then backed away.

“Has anyone been giving you any trouble?” Gideon asked sharply.

“No, sir.”

Rosalie stood next to him and heard the quiet “thank God.”

“Mr. Beels told us to scream for help if anyone tried anything.”

“Good for Beels.” Gideon went on, less urgent now. “You’d best go off to bed now. It’s past two a.m.”

How did it get to be so late? Rosalie wondered. Time didn’t seem affected, but she’d so enjoyed herself.

Gideon was talking to the servants. “If you have a lock on your door, use it. Otherwise, wedge a chair under the door handle.”

“Yessir.”

She and Gideon were alone in the kitchen.

“It’s almost over,” she said. “Isn’t it?”

Somewhere in the distance, someone yelled. A cry of delight, Rosalie guessed. That moment when the body went out of itself in pleasure. She wanted that again.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

Rosalie hoisted herself onto the large, flour-sprinkled table. “You are good at ordering people about,” she said and drew a pattern in the flour, then sucked the end of her finger. Soft wheat gummed her mouth, bland but pleasant.

He’d gone, and she supposed he was investigating the yell. She considered following him, but he had no need of her.

She pushed some of the pans off the table, and they landed with clangs, thumps, and rattles.

The violin music filled her. The scent of the kitchen fire, the last of the feast prepared and mostly abandoned. She put her hand near her nose and sniffed. Yes. There he was, the musky scent of him. She curled on the broad wooden table and breathed the faint trace of Gideon as she dozed off.

* * *

The long night drew to a close. Reed sent exhausted servants on their way or off to bed and reminded them of their duty to remain silent. He doubted his admonition made the slightest bit of difference. Probably even the bribes of money that would come later wouldn’t be effective.

Some of the guests had to be awakened, dressed by one of the remaining maids, or assisted by Beels. Then Reed summoned carriages for the bedraggled partygoers. Not their own carriages, usually. Those servants had been dismissed a little after midnight, and rather than ask questions, they went off happily. Only one or two coaches lingered because the coachmen claimed they’d lose their jobs if they left without direct permission. That meant Mrs. Lark had a ride home.

Reed found Rosalie asleep on the kitchen table. He hoisted her in his arms and carried her up the stairs.

She woke and smiled. “You,” she said. “Good. Thank you.”

She wrapped an arm around his neck and snuggled deeper against him.

He’d already decided he must tell some of the people who’d lived through this evening what had occurred. But what could he say to Rosalie? Not only had he failed to protect her from assault, he’d carried it out himself.

She’d expect him to tell the truth. She would if the positions were reversed. But over the next few days, weeks, and months, she’d have to face some consequences. Someone would know all the night’s happenings. All it would take is one whispering servant.

He sighed and pushed open her door with his knee. The bed had been thoroughly disordered by the long-gone Mr. Wentworth and Mrs. Lark.

Would he have to approach those two guests and tell them the truth? She wouldn’t be likely to bear a child…

“Gideon.” The fragrant bundle in his arms kissed his neck. “Thank you for everything you did. I know you helped us immeasurably.”

“Not with everything I did,” he said as he knelt and put her on the rumpled sheets.

“Everything.” She held open her arms, and he almost went to her. Almost answered the invitation. Then he remembered Maggie. The body’s mindlessness.

“No, damn it. It’s horrible.”

“I am?” She peered at him, her forehead furrowed.

“Not you. All of it, Rosalie. You saw it. You saw your mother and the others.”

“My mother. She’s…” Her voice died away.

He wished to God he’d not reminded her of that, but he had to stop her. “You know what’s causing this, and you want more?”

“No, it—it’s not…” She gnawed her lip. He watched the white teeth worrying at her mouth and wished he could reach out and stop her.

She shook her head. “Not the same.”

God, he still wanted her and had to drive them back from it. Remember Maggie, he thought. “Tonight it is nothing but bodies. You can’t speak of anything else when all action is dictated by pure need created by artificial means. There’s nothing of real regard or affection in those embraces.”

“No?” Her voice was strangled. “That is your perception, Gideon. Not mine. Not what I saw or felt.”

“It’s easy to allow the powder to take over your thoughts as well as your body,” he said. He couldn’t allow her to say something she might regret. Wait for the cold light of day, he wanted to say.

But she wasn’t begging him to fuck her. Her response was cold, and he supposed he deserved every chilly word.

“At least I am not a pious hypocrite,” she said. “I am going to write down everything. All the things that you and I did together in that library. Twice we did that. So if I forget this evening, you won’t be able to plead innocent.”

He rocked back on his heels and straightened. “Rosalie, I am sorry you think I’m a hypocrite. Come to think of it, you’re probably right.” He sighed. “I’m angry. I’m confused. It’s been a very long night.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “And the only proper thing for me to do is to thank you for your help. I shan’t bother you again.” She gave a sniff. “And don’t worry. I won’t find paper and write down what happened. I daresay I’d be more mortified than you if I remember tonight.”

“I doubt that,” he said. “For the whole of the night, I’ve despised myself for my weakness.”

She waved a hand at him, then covered her face with an arm as if trying block out a light. Only a lamp glowed next to the bed.

“No need to hate yourself, me, or anyone else. I am tired of your grim face, Mr. Reed. You were disapproving the first time you sat in my parlor and refused to say a word. Arms all tucked up tight,” she said peevishly, her voice muffled by her arm. “Heavens, I wish I had the sense to fall in love with someone who had a lighter heart.”

In love
? She thought she was
in love
with him? His heart was suddenly so light, it had flown into his mouth.

“Rosalie?”

She’d closed her eyes, and now her breathing was deep and regular. He leaned over her and kissed her cheek. “I’d never despise you. I couldn’t,” he whispered.

That was settled, then. Once the stuff had worn off, he’d be back.

He’d already argued with himself that his need for her could just be some animal drive within him. Or it could just be the bloody powder. But at that last sentence of hers, he was lost.

Love
was a word he heard often enough, lightly tossed about. No reason it should mean more than
I love champagne
. Lady Williamsford and her set probably used it in every conversation. Yet he couldn’t talk himself out of the exhilaration her grumpy words had stirred in him.

He went out the servants’ entrance and into the predawn air. The city had scarcely dozed through the night hours, and the new day had already started. A milkman chirruped to his horse, and a rag-and-bones cart was trundling down the street.

A pushcart vendor slowly pushed an empty cart near the gutter. Probably going to fill it with the day’s wares.