Lady of Shame (13 page)

André swung about. ‘It is Joe,’ he yelled. ‘Stay still. Perhaps he has news of Jane.’

She could not take the chance he did not. Frozen inside and out she kept edging forward.

‘Claire,’ he said.
‘Mon Dieu, arrêtez!’

‘Mrs Holte,’ Joe shouted still some distance off. ‘Miss Jane is at the Dower House.’

Safe. Jane was not in the water, not gone with the Gypsies. She was safe. She couldn’t move. Not forward or backwards. And then the ladder was sliding, pulling her back to the bank and André was lifting her to her feet.

He let her go. She felt his hands leave her waist. The loss of his support made her stagger, but somehow she found her balance.

Her heart, which seemed to have stopped beating since she saw the hole in the ice, staggered to life. Joe ran out from behind the boathouse, from the direction of Castonbury. They walked to meet him, but time seemed to slow, as if she was walking through air turned to syrup. She didn’t dare hope she’d heard correctly. It would be too cruel to find she was wrong, after all.

Joe halted in front of them, gasping, face red from the chill wind and his run. ‘Mrs Holte, Jimmy just brought word from the Dower House. Miss Jane went to visit her cousin. Becca said you’d come out to search for her. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’

‘Jane is at the house?’

He shook his head. ‘Lady Hatherton had a maid put her to bed. She got herself lost in the woods for a while.’

Claire’s knees gave way.

André caught her arm beneath the elbow. ‘It is all right,
madame
. The child is all right.’

André could scarcely hold her she trembled so hard. Walking half a mile like this was out of the question.

‘I must go to her,’ she whispered, but it might as well have been a shriek she sounded so distraught.

To see her overcome by all the anguish of her terror now the child was safe shifted walls built one painful brick at a time. Something dark twisted in his chest, wanting to find its way into the light. Clawing at the veil on the past, revealing the stark recollection of crying out for his mother. His fist banging on glass that might as well have been ice for all the notice she took. Or water closing over his head. His knocking had been silenced by the hand of a stranger while he watched her ride away.

Until that moment, he’d basked in luxurious safety, pampered and treasured, or so he’d thought. It had all been a lie.

He slammed the door shut on the grim visage that followed, the brutality and weeks of desperation. Neither memory served any purpose. He lived in the here and the now. Yet deep down he knew what Claire felt.

‘
Madame
, you must not go to her until you are calm. You will frighten her.’

He looked at Joe shifting from one foot to the other in the snow. ‘
Madame
is frozen to the bone.’ He gestured to the brick bath house beside the boathouse. ‘I will light a fire in here and bring her when she is herself. Have John Coachman ready the carriage to take her to the boathouse. Leave me the torch,
s’il vous plaît
.’

Claire shuddered violently and Joe stared at her. ‘Shall I send Mrs Stratton?’

‘I do not think it necessary,
mon ami
. I will bring
la madame
shortly.’

The boy touched his forelock, handed André the torch and scampered off.

‘Claire,’ he murmured softly but firmly. ‘Come. Walk a few steps for me. We will have you warm and ready to find Mademoiselle Jane safe and sound, and asleep in her bed.’

‘Th-thank you.’

She took a step, but almost fell. He picked her up and carried her into the bath house. So light. So small. Such a very dainty lady. And so very courageous.

Thank goodness for the hearth already set for a fire. He touched the torch to the kindling and it caught immediately, the flames flickering off the water in the plunge bath and dancing off the blue-and-white tiles that lined the walls.

He sat beside her on the changing bench and she sagged against him, all the strength seemed to have leached out of her. All he could think to do was put an arm around her shoulders and stroke her.

‘I thought she was gone.’ Her voice was thin and wavering. Her shoulders rose with a deep shuddering breath. ‘I thought she’d been taken. And then, when I saw that hole in the ice…I was so sure she was gone. She is all I have.’

Her body shuddered with such force, André feared she might be about to fall into some sort of fit. He held her tighter, willing his strength into her fragile body, cradling her cheek against his shoulder, rocking. ‘Hush. Hush. It is all right. She is safe.’

‘I can’t lose her. I can’t.’

‘You have not lost her.’ He lifted her face with his palms, looking into her eyes, giving her his calm as she had given it to him. ‘You heard Joe. She is safe, with her family.’

But he understood only too well that safety could be stripped away in an instant. The thought of what could happen, what had happened to him as a child, brought bile to his throat. Not all families cared for their children. But this woman did. She’d been prepared to lay down her life for her child.

Then she started to cry. Great racking sobs that shook her body, and all he could do was hold her.

‘Claire,’ he said gently, removing his glove. He tipped her face up and wiped her cheek with the pad of his thumb. ‘Tears now,
chérie
? When out there you were so very brave.’

And still the tears fell. He held her close, rocking her slowly. Letting her cry. ‘Hush,’ he whispered.
‘Doucement. Doucement.’
Gradually the sobs subsided to little hiccups and sniffs.

His mother had walked away. Abandoned him without a backwards glance, whereas Claire would give her life for Jane. Something inside his chest felt too large, too tender. He pretended it was not there. Sought for something to say.

‘Hush, now,
ma petite
. It is over.’

When she was finally quiet, he did what any man would do. He mopped her face with his handkerchief.

She lifted her face to his touch, gave him a watery smile and a look of such gratitude he felt like a god among men. She touched his heart in ways that made him long for things he never knew he wanted.

Love. A family. Things he’d always denied were important.

He didn’t quite know how it happened, whether he bent to her, or she lifted her face to him, but one moment he was drying her tears and the next their lips met. Passionately. Feverishly. Fiercely. Her lips were hot against his, where her cheeks were cold and damp against his palms.

He wanted to warm her through and through and offer her comfort. And heaven help him take some for himself after the memories she’d evoked. Memories he’d buried as a frightened child.

Her lips parted against his and his tongue swept her mouth, helping him forget the images of that terrible afternoon when his mother had abandoned him to his fate.

She moaned sweetly in the back of her throat and he hardened within his trousers, the fabric tight against his arousal.

Her hands went around his neck and she stroked his tongue with hers, explored his mouth, the little cries in the back of her throat both a wonder and a torment to his heightening desire.

‘Claire,’ he whispered.
‘Ma petite.’

Her gaze searched his face, looked into his very dark soul with passion and smiled. ‘André,’ she breathed. She kissed him at first sweetly and then with fierce demand.

He cradled her head with his hands and kissed her back, nipping at her lips, exploring her mouth with his tongue, tasting the essence of womanhood and wonderful Claire.

His hands roamed her shoulders, brushed the front of her coat, felt the rise of her breasts beneath the heavy fabric. A groan of frustration rose in his throat and she drew back, looking into his eyes. Traces of her tears glistened on her cheeks, but her smile was definitely more than a little wicked.

Hands braced on his shoulders, she twisted around and, pulling up her skirts, straddled his thighs. Her smile, full of bravado, also contained more than a hint of a challenge. Brave girl. Brave to the point of reckless. And thank goodness she was a widow, because there was no way in the world he was going to be careful. He was just too damned aroused to think straight.

While she teased his lips with her tongue, she stroked his face, tickled his nape and his ears with her fingers. He undid the buttons of his falls with one hand and caressed her chilly buttocks with the other.

He had some idea that he should protect her from the chill until the fire could warm the small space, but it was a very vague idea, not fully formed, and her assaults on him were driving him too close to the brink.

And the damned buttons would not undo.

He felt like an awkward boy, all fingers and thumbs, and clumsy eagerness, his knuckles brushing against the hot satiny skin of her inner thigh.

She rose up on her knees with a breathy little laugh at his battle, cupping his face to kiss his lips, open-mouthed and delicious, and giving him better access beneath his coat.

At last, the button slipped through its moorings in the placket, then the next and the next, and his erection was released from its confines.

With effort, he broke the kiss, breathing hard.

‘Claire,’ he said, looking into her hazy desire-filled gaze. ‘Are you sure?’

She gazed at him, awareness slowly seeping into her expression, while her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. ‘I need this,’ she whispered. ‘Please.’

The please was the
coup de grâce
. Until that moment, he’d thought he could resist. Be logical. Sensible. Though heaven knew he’d been far from logical in any of his dealings with Claire Holte.

A gentle stroke of her hot damp cleft and her little moan of pleasure in his ear confirmed her permission.

He took himself in hand and guided the head of his shaft against her hot wet sheath, parting the folds gently, caressing the centre of her pleasure with his own hard flesh until she quivered and squirmed. The moment he ceased holding her high, she slid down on him, sheathing him in her heat. His hips rose to meet her downwards thrust and the darkness of passion invaded his mind.

A welcome blackness. A void where only the physical existed, the slide of flesh on flesh. The sound of her encouraging cries. The feel of her hands through his clothes. The deep physical joining of naked flesh.

The abyss drew him on. He pounded his hips hard between her thighs, his hands lifting her, then driving her down on his aching shaft.

The soft sounds of her cries of delight echoed off hard tile and drowned him in the delicious music of lust.

And then he was going over. Too fast. Too hard. He caressed her where they were joined in desperate haste. She uttered a cry. Pleasure, not pain. And the silken walls of her body fluttered and stroked him and he was lost.

La petite morte
claimed him. A hot death full of trembling mindless bliss more intense than anything he’d ever experienced.

Deep calm. They clung to each other like the victims of a storm, breathing hard; he inhaled her scent, a fragrance so potent it made him dizzy. She lay with her cheek against his, breathing softly, like a child at peace.

Warily he placed the flat of his hand on her back, wondering if she might reject him now it was over. Steeling himself for righteous horror. Dreading it, even as he knew he deserved it. She’d been vulnerable. Lost. He’d been ignoble in taking advantage.

He hated himself, knowing he’d want it again and again. He’d taken her like a rutting beast. A lady. A noblewoman. He’d been crude and unthinking.

It wasn’t like him at all. She deserved so much better.

Slowly she drew in a deep breath and raised her head.

He waited. Expecting recriminations.

Her eyes startled, her expression bemused, she touched a finger to lips reddened by rough kisses. She seemed more surprised than disturbed.

Stunned, perhaps, by the enormity of what they had done.

‘Claire,’ he said, his voice rough. ‘I—’

‘Not now,’ she whispered. She touched a hand to his lips. ‘I must go before someone comes looking. You ordered the carriage, remember?’

Witnesses to his folly were just what they needed. He went hot and cold.

He helped her off his lap, trying not to feel the chill as he lost the heat of her centre. He rose, turning away to fasten his falls, feeling much like a thief in the night.

What the hell had he done? He turned back to find her standing, her skirts in careful order, her gaze directed at the door. ‘Jane. I must go to Jane.’ She pulled the door open. Cold swirled in around them, bringing with it clarity of thought.

‘Give me a moment.’ He took a bucket from beside the fire and ushered her out. He scooped up snow and went back and doused the flames, much as reality had doused his ardour. He picked up the torch and they walked side by side back to the house, in silence.

Oddly, there was companionship in that walk, when he’d braced for anger, or even icy contempt. But, after all, he was not the only one at fault and Claire was nothing if not fair.

He just wished he didn’t feel so damned guilty.

The carriage was waiting. Caught in the light beside the door, Claire looked flushed and tear-stained and, heaven help him, well-bedded as John Coachman leapt down to help her into the coach.

André bowed as he had been taught as a boy to bow to a lady, in the days when he’d been a gentleman in the making.

‘Thank you for your help, Monsieur André,’ she murmured, leaning forward from inside. Did he sense more than formality in her tone? Did her gratitude reflect something more deeply personal?

A cold wind whipped across the driveway and André hunched his shoulders against the chill and watched her drive away.

How would she feel about what had passed between them in the cold light of day? Once she was herself again. He saw difficulties ahead.

Chapter Eleven

‘W
hy can I not visit Monsieur André in the kitchen, Mama?’

Claire wanted to bang her head against the surface of the library’s escritoire. It would be far less painful than the reminder of why neither of them could or should visit Monsieur André in the kitchen or anywhere else. It was bad enough in the daytime. But last night when she had finally sunk into her bed, the rest of the night had been a torture of memories. And the reason they had to be torturous no longer made sense.

‘You know why you are not permitted to visit the kitchens for a week.’

Jane, seated on a high stool at the large oak table in the middle of the room, pouted. ‘I said I was sorry for going to the Dower House. I wanted to show baby Crispin the kitten and you were busy. Why are you still angry? Every time I mention Monsieur André, you go red.’

Red. Surely her face was vermillion, she felt so hot. Heat, followed by the horrid tight feeling beneath her ribcage. Embarrassment at her wantonness. Her knowledge that she wanted to do it again.

She drew in a deep breath. ‘I am not angry, dearest, I promise you. But you broke your promise not to leave the house without my permission. Your behaviour must be punished. Punishment means being deprived of something one enjoys. I already told you how I feel about your adventure yesterday. Now, please, continue working on your letters as we agreed.’

The clock on the mantel struck the hour. Heaven help her, it was only three in the afternoon. The day was crawling by, and he still hadn’t responded to her note. Her request to attend her in the library, when he had time.

And then what would she do? What could she say in front of the child? Her heart raced. She swallowed the lump in her throat. He’d looked so utterly devastated when he’d left her at the carriage last night. Once she had seen Jane was safe with her own eyes, his expression had haunted her thoughts, along with the longings.

Glorious wonderful longings that would not leave her in peace.

Last night had been an impulse of the moment. But why should she not have what she wanted as long as she was discreet? Some pleasure, after years of misery with a man who despised her. The future she faced held little more than duty and something inside her needed this. Perhaps it was required to rid her of her attraction. Then she could move on with her life, follow the path she had chosen without regret.

Whatever it was, she did not have the strength to resist it.

Anxiously, she folded the note she had penned into tiny squares. She would burn it. No one must ever see the extent of her foolishness.

Tucking it in her pocket and drawing her shawl close around her shoulders to ward off a sudden chill, she rose and went to look at Jane’s work. The child had diligently copied out the passage from the history book. ‘Very nicely done.’

‘Now can I go and play?’

‘Yes. In the nursery. Nowhere else.’

A knock sounded at the door. She would know that sharp firm sound anywhere. He had come. Frozen in place, terrified by the rush of joy, she stared as the door opened.

André. Looking as he always did in his tall white hat and pristine white linen beneath his dark coats. ‘You wished to see me, Madame Holte? I apologise for not coming sooner. I went to Buxton this morning for supplies and have only just returned.’

He had not been avoiding her. He’d been busy. With his employment. ‘Everything is ready for dinner this evening,
monsieur
?’ Her voice wobbled unbearably.

‘Yes,
madame
.’ He frowned in puzzlement, then smiled at Jane. ‘You are well, Mademoiselle Jane?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ The child dipped a little curtsey, as if he was a gentleman, not a chef. ‘Mama says I may not visit you.’

His gaze flew to her face, hurt in the depths of those dark eyes quickly hidden, but there, nonetheless. She had not intended to hurt him.

‘As part of her punishment, Monsieur André,’ she assured him. ‘It is a privilege withdrawn for one week.’

His expressions eased. ‘I see.’ He bowed to Jane. ‘Then I look forward to next week,
mademoiselle
.’

Trembling, she fingered the small square of paper through the folds of her skirts. Dare she? ‘Off to the nursery with you, Jane,’ Claire said. ‘I will be there in a minute.’

They both watched the child leave and close the door behind her.

‘May I be of further assistance,
madame
?’

The deep voice did terrible things to her insides. Dare she? Not in a note. It was the height of folly. ‘Come to me tonight,’ she whispered. ‘After midnight.’

Shock blazed a trail across his face.

‘Please. We must talk. About what happened.’

His faced closed down, becoming impassive. ‘I do not think it wise,
madame
.’

Disappointment flooded through her. And the pain of rejection.

He closed his eyes briefly. ‘But yes, I will come.’ He turned away, jerkily, without his usual grace of movement, as if he, too, was in turmoil. And then he was gone.

She ran to the fireplace and burned the note. Watched it flare and smoulder until it was nothing but white ash and went to find her daughter.

* * *

Twice she changed her gown, finally settling on an undressing robe. So shockingly bold.

A whisper of a knock on the door before he slid inside, not waiting for permission. Wise man. She certainly did not want anyone to hear, unlikely though it was with the other ladies of the house away and the rest of the servants long since retired.

He closed the door behind him, but did not stray from the threshold. He stood looking at her, his eyes unreadable in the gloom, his face still, pale and shadowed.

His hands curled into fists as he waited for her to speak. Did he know he looked ready for battle? But with whom? She had the feeling he was at war with himself.

Was that how he saw life? As a battle to be won. Or was it just her whom he fought. He seemed too kind to be a warrior, too gentle, but she had seen him with Joe and knew he was not.

‘I wanted to talk to you,’ she said. Her voice was barely above a whisper and it shook more than she would have liked. But then he seemed to have that unsettling effect on her. ‘About last night.’

His jaw flickered. His chest rose and fell a little deeper than before, but it was the only acknowledgement he made of her having spoken.

Her heart picked up speed. Pounding in her chest as if she had run a mile. Banging against her ribs. She lifted her chin, gazed at his face straight on, refusing to be shamed. ‘I am not sorry.’ She plucked at her skirts. ‘It was wonderful. Beautiful. I would not have you thinking otherwise.’

‘Claire,’ he said softly, taking a half-step forward, then halting, his expression a picture of surprise and puzzlement.

She lifted a hand. ‘I saw your face, before I entered the carriage. And again today. You think it is something we should be ashamed of, no doubt. But I’m not.’

‘Claire.’ He closed the distance between them in two long strides. He seized her shoulders in those long-fingered hands of his and gazed into her eyes. ‘Claire. I fear I took advantage of you at your most vulnerable. I thought myself better than that.’

‘No. No. I took advantage of you.’ She licked her lips, wondering how to put what was in her heart and in her mind into words that would not make it sound trivial. ‘I do not want you to think you need worry about my saying something.’

A small half-smile touched his lips. ‘And this is what you called me up here in the middle of the night to tell me?’

She nodded. ‘In part.’ She swallowed the sudden dryness in her throat. Heat flushed to her face. Scalding. Betraying. ‘All last night I kept seeing that hole in the ice and how I thought she was gone. I didn’t dare close my eyes in case Joe was wrong, in case I had dreamed she had been found. Only when I held her this morning was I sure. And even then…’ She held out her trembling hands. ‘I’m still shaking.’

He held up a hand with a short laugh. ‘I also tremble.’

She gazed at him, feeling as if she were another person tonight. Someone she barely recognised. ‘I could not bear the idea of being alone tonight.’ She shook her head, averted her face. ‘I want you.’

For a moment he was still, then his palm came up from her shoulder to cup her cheek and tilt her face upwards. For a moment she resisted the gentle pressure, and for a second moment, she lowered her gaze to his chin, his very beautiful chin, but then something about his tension made her look up into his face.

His expression was tender and full of raw longing.
‘Chérie,’
he said in little more than a whisper. ‘Darling Claire. Never, ever have I been so tempted.’

Emboldened, she smiled a tremulous smile

He gave a short laugh. ‘I find there is an emptiness in me only you can fill, even though it can only be for a short time, an interval, in both our lives.’

‘I understand.’ She did. And could not turn away. Because yesterday, for the first time in many years, she had felt treasured. Beloved, if not loved. It had soothed some great gash in her heart and she was not ready to let it go. Not yet. Soon she must marry again, and there would be no grand passion. Why should she not take this last chance to experience joy?

* * *

André could not quite believe this was happening. Yes, his heart had lifted when she had issued her invitation. And he’d been able to think of nothing else all day. He was lucky dinner hadn’t been a total disaster he’d been so distracted, but he kept remembering how he’d used her. He’d taken her in what had been little more than an outdoor shed. Treated a woman he respected like a common female of the street. It had sickened him. She deserved so much more.

And then she’d asked to see him. And he’d admitted his need, when he had never needed anyone. The very idea sent his head spinning like a blow to the temple.

She stepped around him and stood facing the door. She intended to show him out. Confusion filled him. A trace of anger. He didn’t like to be toyed with.

She turned the key in the lock. His breath left him in a rush. Anticipation. Understanding.

She spun around to face him, the naughtiness of a schoolgirl caught out gleaming in her eyes and a shy smile curving her lips. ‘We don’t need any interruptions.’

The very thought made his blood run cold. An affair with a servant would ruin her completely.

A servant was lower than a gentleman’s horse.

‘This is not a good idea,’ he said.

Her face paled. The brightness in her expression fled. ‘You don’t want to stay?’

‘Yes, I want to stay.’

The relief on her face was painful to see, as if she had expected him to reject her. He could scarcely believe that, but she wore her feelings on her face like the printed words of a recipe. A recipe for disaster. ‘It is you I worry for.’

She walked back to him. Her gaze, so open and honest, so clear and direct, spoke volumes. Longing. Hope. Bravery. ‘I am no innocent child who needs protection from herself. I know what I want.’

The bold words made his heart race, his breathing hitch in his throat.

She drew in a quick breath and his gaze fell of its own volition to the creamy white skin above the edge of her gown. So smooth. So silken. He wanted to kiss her there. His blood pounded in his veins. He forced himself to look at her face, to make sense of her words.

‘I did think my choice should be an informed one,’ she said breathlessly. ‘That it would be a good idea if we got to know each other a little better first.’

So cautious, his little brown mouse. He wanted to smile, but knew she would take it amiss.

And she was right. What did she know of him? At the moment, he wasn’t quite sure he recognised himself. He did know he wanted a chance to make up for last night. The chance to bring her true pleasure as she deserved.

She gestured towards the small sofa beside the hearth, a lovers’ couch, a twisted affair where they would sit separately, but converse face to face. An unusual piece of furniture for a lady’s boudoir. Beside it sat a small table with a decanter of wine glinting ruby in the firelight and two glasses. So they were to be civilised, when what he really wanted to do was kiss her senseless, and remove the shadows from her eyes, as well as her clothes. He wanted to see all of her.

But he could be civilised. He’d learned the way of it in his youth and if he tried he could remember some of those lessons, though he refused to remember his teachers.

He took her hand, walked her to her side of the chaise, then settled himself on the other with a smile. She poured him a glass of wine and handed it to him over the sofa back.

‘To your health,’ he said, raising his glass.

‘And to yours.’

As toasts went it was pretty innocuous. He sipped his wine and found it a beautiful rich burgundy. The kind of wine he would be proud to serve in his restaurant.

‘How did you get Monsieur Lumsden to part with his precious horde of Romanée?’ he asked, savouring the bouquet of blackcurrant and leather on his tongue.

She smiled. ‘I see you really know do your wines. I asked him for it specifically. I remember it was one of the vintages my father was particularly proud of. How he managed to get it out of France, I do not know.’

A silence fell. Not uncomfortable, or intimidating, and filled by the crackle of the fire and the faint sound of her rapid breathing. ‘It is a great many years since I engaged in any sort of drawing room flirtation,’ she said on a deprecating laugh. A strained little sound, and breathless with embarrassment. ‘You will excuse me if I am a little rusty.’

He grinned. ‘Having never engaged in any at all, I have no means of judging.’

She laughed freely then. Unexpectedly low. A little husky sound at the back of her throat that reminded him of other sounds she had made for him. His groin tightened unexpectedly. He shifted in his seat, looking for easement, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

‘I never had much practice,’ she said. ‘My come-out was cut short by my mother’s death. I married shortly afterwards.’

‘I am sorry for your loss.’ The words were much too stilted for the loss of a parent, but he hated discussing parents. His or anyone else’s. Tension tightened his shoulders; he felt uncomfortable in his skin. And now the silence dragged on.