Candice Hern (22 page)

"Even so," she continued, "our society is as patriarchal as that of the Hebrews. The sentiments expressed in Genesis still hold true, even with the occasional exception of a Queen Elizabeth, or a Deborah. The point is that, under most circumstances, man must accept his role as leader, and woman as his helper."

"And yet," he said, "the earlier creation story in Genesis one, verses twenty-six and twenty-seven provides no suggestion of one being submissive to the other. 'In the image of God he created them; male and female created he them.' He tells them nothing more than to be fruitful and multiply, and to replenish the earth. That seems a more appropriate passage to me."

"But the bishop used the later passage, so it is a moot point. In any case, it is meant to be instructive, to provide guidance in living a good Christian life."

"Instructive in how to be subservient." A frown puckered his brow. "Yes, I understand it is the way most woman live, the way they have been taught to live, even as more rational ideals and democratic principles are fomented in coffeehouses and debating societies. But I wonder how you can feel comfortable publishing such anti-female opinions under your own name. It makes you a party to subjugating your own sex. Is this reflective of how the Great Man treated his own wife?"

"Please, John, you know I dislike it when you disparage the bishop. He was a good man. He spent his entire life doing good work. Just because his political and social views were more conservative than your Whiggish opinions does not make him a bad person."

"Was he good to
you
?" He enveloped her in his shrewd blue gaze, as though he could see straight into her soul. "Did he make you happy?"

"Of course," she replied, rather too quickly. "I was blessed to know him, and honored to be his wife. He made me very happy."

His eyebrows rose sharply. "As his little helper? Can you honestly say you enjoyed being subservient to him and his work more than you enjoy managing Marlowe House and the Widows Fund all by yourself? I'll wager the old fellow would never have allowed you to be your own woman."

There it was again. The familiar litany. Grace supposed he must believe that if she truly became
her own woman
, this new, liberated woman would happily fall into his bed.

"Did he even allow you to have your own opinion?" he pressed. "About anything?"

Not often, as it happened. But that was a private matter and not Rochdale's business.

He sneered at her silence. "I thought not. The truth is, he took an unfinished, biddable young girl and molded her into the perfect bishop's wife, a public paragon of his teachings. But it is not too late to smash that mold and start fresh. Fortunately, you're still a young woman and can —"

"I was one-and-thirty on my last birthday. Not so very young."

"Egad. As old a crone as that?" He gave a theatrical shudder. "I cannot imagine what attracts me to such a dried-up old stick. You are exceedingly well preserved, my dear."

She smiled. "Perhaps because I have not led a life of dissipation."

He winced. "A direct hit. Must you remind me that my craggy old phiz shows every minute of my thirty-four years? While you sit there with your fine, aristocratic, ageless beauty."

She chuckled softly and said, "I am neither fine nor aristocratic. Did you know that? Unlike yourself, I come from very humble stock."

"Do you?"

"Yes. My mother was a farmer's daughter, my father a country vicar in Devon whose own father had been a mine foreman who made enough money from a rich lode to send his son to school. Papa read for the church and started his career at the bottom, as a minor curate."

"I daresay your mother was a beauty, then, even if not a highborn one. But to return to my point, I only meant that you are still young enough to —"

"I know what you meant. There is no need to repeat it. I understand your point, John, I really do. You must not feel obliged on my account to drum it home so loudly and so often. Now, hush. The musicians are ready to begin."

As she listened to the music, or tried to listen, Rochdale's words rang in her ears, drowning out everything else. He was the only person who ever dared to criticize the bishop in her presence. Grace would continue to defend her husband and his teachings. She owed him that much. But more and more often she found herself wondering if he had indeed manipulated her, as a naïve young girl with a malleable mind, into becoming his own creation. It was certainly true that he had taught her how to behave properly, in public and in private. Even in the bedroom. Had he erased everything that had been the lively young Grace Newbury to create the coolly reserved Mrs. Grace Marlowe?

No, he had not. She smiled to herself as she realized there was still an eager young girl buried under eleven years of a closely guarded marriage and three years of immaculate widowhood. No wonder she and Rochdale were such good friends. They were much alike. Each of them had lost their young selves and become something quite different. Perhaps they could each help the other unlock that youthful idealism that had been hidden away for so long.

Or was it too late?

After the musicians had played and a young soprano had sung two beautiful airs, tea and brandy were served as the guests mingled in the drawing room or on the terrace. Rochdale led Grace outside into Wilhelmina's lovely formal garden, beyond the lights of the house and a few paper lanterns hung in the trees. She knew what he wanted, and she wanted it, too. He had not kissed her since that day at Marlowe House, though they had seen each other several times. This was their first opportunity to be alone, and Wilhelmina's guests were not the sort to judge or gossip. Or to spy.

Grace allowed him to lead her into a far corner of the garden, where he stopped and leaned back against a large tree. Moonlight fell through the leaves and across the harsh planes of his face. Dear heaven, did his eyes have to be so blue? Blue as the sea. Blue she could drown in. Die in.

He took her hands and gently pulled her toward him. "I want to kiss you, Grace."

"I know."

"Will you let me?"

"No."

His eyes widened and he looked completely startled. "Why not? It's been so long, and I am hungry for you. Why can't I kiss you?"

She grinned. "Because
I
am going to kiss
you
."

"Are you?" He smiled and her knees grew weak. This was not his wicked smile, his scoundrel's smile. This was a real smile that lit his eyes and put creases in their corners, a smile that softened the hard-edged arrogance of him. A smile that made her want to love him, just a little.

"Yes, I am."

"Well, then, what are you waiting for?"

She put her arms around his neck and he slid his arms around her waist. He did not pull her close, though, but waited for her to make the next move. She smiled, then she placed a hand on the back of his head, pulled him down to her, and kissed him.

Remembering all that she liked most about his kisses, she tried to give him the same pleasure. She first moved her lips softly over his, nipping and tasting. She kissed his upper lip, the corners of his mouth, and finally took his lower lip between hers and sucked gently. He groaned into her mouth and, just as he had done more than once, she took advantage of his parted lips and slid her tongue inside. His tongue met hers hungrily, circling and thrusting together in a mutual dance of pure pleasure.

The kiss became a battle for control then, with first Rochdale and then Grace taking the lead with lips and tongue and teeth. And hands. She explored his back and shoulders and buttocks, and did not flinch when he palmed her breast.

They kissed and kissed for what seemed hours but was more likely only a few minutes. When they pulled apart at the sound of nearby voices, both were breathless, panting.

He put his mouth next to her ear. "Thank you, Grace. That was the best kiss anyone ever gave me."

She laughed aloud. Lord, he was a heady potion. But then, he'd had a lot of practice. Still, to know that he wanted her, as a woman, as a lover, continued to be a revelation she had never expected in her life.

She knew what the next step would be. Was she ready to take it?

* * *

That night, her dreams were full of Rochdale. First they were standing and kissing, fully clothed. Then, in the illogical way of dreams, she was suddenly naked in his arms — naked! — as they lay together on her bed. He smiled at her as he pulled her hair over one shoulder and combed his fingers slowly through it, over her shoulder and breast. He buried his face in it, smelling it, rubbing his cheek against it, taking thick handfuls of it and breathing it in. And then he was kissing her neck. He kissed her everywhere, in places she had only heard about from the Merry Widows, finally taking her breast into his mouth and sucking. She arched up off the bed, wanting more of his mouth, wanting to crawl right inside it, and she ran her fingers through his black hair. And then her arms were wrapped around his bare back — dear God, he was naked, too — as he pushed himself inside her. Again, and again, and again. It was not quickly done, as it had been with the bishop, but slow and deep and unlike anything she'd ever known.

And she cried out his name. "John. John. John!"

"Do you understand what I mean, Marianne? You told me you had been afraid at first."

"I would say I was anxious rather than frightened," Marianne replied. "And more than a little shocked."

Grace and Marianne strolled arm-in-arm on a path that led toward the Horse Guards Parade, taking advantage of the sunny weather to enjoy a walk through the parkland. They had just visited an exhibition of paintings at the Great Room in Spring Gardens, where the Society of Painters in Oil and Watercolors displayed their works. Marianne had a passion for watercolor paintings, with a fine collection in her home on Bruton Street, and had been a regular patron of the Society for several years. She had been vocal today in her disappointment that the Society's members, who'd originally banded together to support the efforts of watercolorists only, had last year decided to include oil paintings in their exhibitions.

"There are simply not enough of us," she had said, "with an interest in the watercolor medium. Most people prefer the more polished finish of oils. The Society was forced to either introduce oil pictures into their exhibitions or disband entirely, which they actually did for a brief time last year. It is not the same, though. I miss the old Bond Street exhibitions with rooms filled to bursting with delicate watercolor pictures and nothing else."

She had bought two pictures today, both landscapes.

As much as Grace enjoyed looking at the paintings and listening to her friend's insights on style and technique, that was not the reason for accepting Marianne's invitation to join her. After the tryst in Wilhelmina's garden with Rochdale, not to mention the embarrassingly vivid dream that followed, Grace knew she was heading down a path that would inevitably lead her to Rochdale's bed. And the idea both tantalized her and scared her. She had needed someone to talk to, someone who would understand the inner turmoil brought on by the wanton behavior that was so out of character for her.

"I want to confess something to you," Marianne said, "because I believe it will help you to understand the cause of my anxiety. When Penelope first spoke of her love affairs, I was stunned. I had no idea such things happened in the bedroom."

Grace's eyebrows shot up to her hairline. "Truly? I assumed that you and David ... that you had ... I mean, the way you embraced Penelope's pact and so enthusiastically went in search of a lover, I assumed it was because ..."

"It was because I was curious. As good a marriage as I had with David, I had never experienced anything like what Penelope described. When Beatrice implied that her marriage to Somerfield had been equally passionate, I realized I had missed something fundamental, and I found that I wanted to experience it. I now understand that there was indeed a missing element in my marriage with David, that our marital relations were ... well, to be perfectly candid, they were almost chaste. There was love between us, to be sure, but no physical passion. With Adam, I have both. It is a more complete relationship, and I have never been happier."

Grace fell silent as she pondered her friend's words. It sounded right, that a marriage should include both love and passion, that a man and wife should share ... everything. And yet, the bishop had taught her differently.

The Palladian grandeur of the Horse Guards and the Treasury loomed to her left, and the gardens of Carlton House spread out on her right, but Grace paid them no mind as she contemplated, yet again, all the bishop had said about wifely behavior. Would he scorn Marianne for being physically fulfilled in her marriage?

"But to return to your question," Marianne said, interrupting Grace's thoughts, "yes, it was a bit scary at first to feel so many new sensations running through my body. To feel that I had no control over my own reactions, as if my body had a mind of its own, if you take my meaning."

"Yes! That is exactly how I feel with John. With Lord Rochdale. It is so confusing to me! I've never felt anything like it before, and yet I ... I enjoyed it, even though I know it is wrong to allow myself to do so."

"What are you talking about? How is it wrong?"

"I know it to be sinful to give in to that kind of passion. It is an unforgivable weakness that I should be able to control. But this time, I can't. And worse, I find that I don't care. I am willing to sin."

Marianne stopped walking and turned to face Grace, her head tilted to one side, her brown eyes narrowed beneath a furrowed brow. "Is that what ... Forgive me, Grace, but is that what the bishop told you? That it is sinful to experience physical passion?"

Grace nodded, suddenly embarrassed by the conversation.

"Even in private with him," Marianne said, "it was wrong to respond to ... to physical intimacy?"

Grace nodded again. "A virtuous woman does not give in to base reactions, does not allow herself to experience lascivious feelings of any kind," she said in a voice barely above a whisper, quoting the bishop's words to her on their wedding night.