The Chadwick Ring (20 page)

Victory bubbled in her veins like champagne. “I do—but not now,” she said breathlessly.

He gazed down at her, at her small, glowing face. Her cheeks were rosy, and her eyes were alight with triumph. He thought she had never looked more beautiful. Her chest heaved rapidly, as if from exertion, under the clinging white silk of her gown, and he had to force himself not to yank down the low, blue-laced neckline and bury his dark head between her milky breasts. When she did not speak, instead staring up at him as if she had never seen him before, he asked huskily, “What is it, Ginevra? Why do you seem so different?” Still she was silent. He said, “Forgive me for allowing you to be put in such an awkward position, but you handled it magnificently. I could hardly believe the change in you.”

She blinked and licked her lips. “I ... perhaps I just grew tired of people pushing me around.”

Another waltz came to its tuneful conclusion, followed by scattered applause. “The dancing,” Chadwick murmured, but Ginevra shook her head.
“I want to go home,” she said. “Please, Richard, I want to be alone with you.”

His blue eyes bored into her. “Ginnie...” he said, his deep voice unsteady.

“You told me you wouldn’t come to me again until I invited you,” she continued impetuously, troubled by his incomprehension. She cried, “Oh, Richard, what more must I say?”

He let out his breath with a hiss. Heedless of anyone who might be watching, he pulled her hard against him, her gentle perfume rising like incense to drug him. Into the brightness of her hair he rasped, “You needn’t say a word, Ginnie. Dear God, not another word...”

In the dimness of the closed carriage she faced him across the space between the two seats, as aware of his deeply engraved features as if, catlike, she could see them in the dark. The coach rattled over the rough pavement, its superior springs softening the long, rutted road between Greenwich and Mayfair to a smooth swaying action that would have seemed almost soothing were not the two passengers so impatient to reach their destination. Their mutual tension was almost tangible, filling the shadowy interior of the vehicle. Ginevra stared at the obscure figure of her husband, smelled his musky scent, and ached to touch him. An hour at least before they reached home—how could she bear to delay another hour?

“Waiting be damned!” the marquess growled, and he hauled her across the space into his arms.

She squealed, “Richard, heed the coachman!”

He stretched over her and pulled the leather curtain securely across the small communicating window behind the driver’s box. “There,” he chuckled grimly, “now he’s blind to our activities, and unless he wants to be banished to my hunting box in northern Scotland, he’ll be deaf as well.” He wound his arms tightly, almost painfully about her. “Now, my girl,” he muttered thickly, “be quiet and kiss me.”

Like a reluctant student suddenly inspired by a brilliant teacher, she followed his tuition eagerly, absorbing in one late but breathtaking moment the import of the lessons he had tried so fruitlessly to teach her in the months since their marriage. She was dazed by her newfound knowledge, drunk with the sensations that flowed through her under the demanding pressure of his seeking hands and mouth, and her body tensed as he brought her closer to the final, devastating revelation.

“This is madness,” he groaned, lifting his head from the breasts that gleamed naked and inviting even in the dim light. “I can’t take you in a carriage like some light-skirt..

“Please,” she wailed, uncertain of what she begged for. She was out of control now, all inhibition lulled by the heady, erotic atmosphere inside the dark cab. The air was moist with their rapid breathing, perfumed and heavy with the mingled odors of their bodies. The gentle sway made her languid even as the ever-present throb of the horses’ hooves picked up the beat of her own pulse. “Please,” she said again, more softly, and she laced her fingers through his black curls and pulled his face down to hers.

She tugged at his cravat, her lips seeking the delicious warmth of his bare skin. She felt the pounding of his heart under her fingertips as if it were a new and momentous discovery.

She was not aware of the disarray he had made of her own clothing until he braced his long legs against the seat opposite and pulled her astride his lap, cupping her buttocks beneath her bunched skirt as he guided her quivering flesh down over his. She gasped at the ease and depth of their union, jerking in surprise, and he murmured, “Softly, softly,” as his hot mouth closed on hers.

She did not know when she began to sob, when the dizzy pressure welling inside her forced her breath from her in low, hoarse gasps that she tried futilely to stifle against his strong throat as she clung to him. She could feel him shaking with joyous triumph. He urged, “Don’t fight it, Ginnie, I want to hear you.”

Her voice was a high, thin thread of sound. “But I think I’m dying...”

“No, Ginnie,” he soothed, his lips moving hungrily over her flushed face, “no, my darling. You’re just now coming alive.” His arms crushed her against him convulsively as they finished their dance of life together.

She lay against his chest weakly, helpless and bemused, conscious only of the steady throb of his heart beneath her ear, and comforting hands that sleeked back her tumbled hair. When he pulled her gown up onto her shoulders and smoothed the skirt down over her thighs, she looked at him in confusion. He said quietly, “We’re almost home.”

“Oh, no,” she choked. “My clothes ... the servants...”

“Don’t worry,” he chuckled, kissing her lightly on the nose, “they’re all deaf and blind, remember?” Quickly he repaired his own dishabille, and he reached for her blue silk evening cloak. As he draped it modestly about her, he smiled infectiously so that she too began to laugh. When he carried her still giggling into the house, swaddled in the protective folds of her cape, the only sign that anyone noticed them was the bedroom door that closed with deliberate slowness just down the corridor from their own.

9

“You are certainly in a gay mood, my lady. The party last night must have been a good one.”

Ginevra glanced up, bemused, to stare at her companion, who sat facing her in the open phaeton. “I beg your pardon, Susan?”

The maid repeated, “I said, you must have enjoyed the party, my lady. You’ve been humming a bit of waltz music ever since we left the house.”

Ginevra blinked. “No, we didn’t dance,” she said. After a moment she shook her head hard and declared, “Oh, Susan, you must think me quite bird-witted today. Forgive me, I suppose I’m still a little tired. Yes, thank you, I did enjoy the party very much.”

“That’s good, my lady.” Susan smiled benignly. As. soon as she had entered her mistress’s bedroom that morning she had noticed the rumpled pillow beside Ginevra’s own, the sensuous shadows beneath her sleepy, gold eyes, and Susan had felt a great rush of relief that, whatever the argument that had estranged the master and his young bride these last weeks, it had apparently been settled to their mutual satisfaction. She asked, “Will you be going out tonight, my lady?”

“No,” Ginevra said, “I shall stay home. His lordship
will be abroad, however. Some kind of political meeting.”

“I have to go,” he had sighed that morning, reluctantly unwinding her arms from around his neck, “but I promise this will be the last time. From now on I shall devote myself entirely to you.”

“You mean you truly
are
becoming a henpecked husband?” she had teased lightly, and his punishment for her audacity had been swift and highly pleasurable ... Ginevra still tingled with the memory when she instructed the coachman to wait while she and Susan made their way into the covered promenade of the Burlington Arcade. Sunlight streamed through the high arched skylights, striping the narrow storefronts with their bow windows full of attractively arranged merchandise. When they entered Madame Annette’s exclusive establishment, they were quickly escorted into the private room reserved for Madame’s better customers, where they could await the couturiere in comfort. Just as the burly female clerk closed the door behind them, Ginevra was seized by a wave of dizziness so intense she almost collapsed.

“My lady!” Susan cried, catching her arm and half dragging her to the velvet settee. Ginevra sank weakly onto the scratchy upholstery, her hands pressed against her white face. “Dear Lord,” she gasped in astonishment, trying to catch her breath, “what could have brought that on?”

Susan hovered about solicitously. “Has the megrim passed, my lady? Shall I fetch you a glass of water? Do you have your vinaigrette?”

“I don’t carry smelling salts,” Ginevra said, shaking her head to clear it. “I’ve never needed them.” She blinked hard and massaged her throbbing temples. “Lord,” she said again, “I haven’t felt like that since ... no, I’m not sure I remember ever feeling quite like that.”

“Perhaps you’re hungry,” Susan suggested. “Did you eat much breakfast?”

“No. Only coffee, and little of that. Lately nothing seems to agree with me, and I...” Her voice trailed away at the knowing smile that began to spread across Susan’s placid features. “Susan?” she asked uncertainly.

“Oh, my lady!” the girl exclaimed with amusement. “Don’t you know?”

Ginevra stared at her. Slowly, slowly, one hand slid down from her bloodless cheek, along her throat, and over her soft breast, to spread gently and protectively across her belly. Her gold eyes clouded and became opaque as she turned her vision inward, bewildered and elated, frightened and ... and exalted. Was it truly possible that she was increasing? Of course it was, and yet the idea had never occurred to her. She wondered why she had not considered the obvious consequences of submitting to her husband’s potent strength. She thought back, calculating the signs: it must have happened very soon after the marquess returned to Dowerwood for her, perhaps even that first traumatic night, although she sincerely hoped not. She would have preferred their child to have been conceived in mutual joy such as they had shared the night before, not in pain and fear—but suddenly that didn’t matter anymore. A baby. She was going to give her husband their baby.

She looked up at Susan and said firmly, “Of course I shall want the doctor to confirm it before I tell anyone, so I hope you will refrain from spreading the news to the rest of the servants until we are sure.”

“As you wish, my lady,” Susan said with a grin. “Not that there can be much doubt. There’s but one reason I know of why a healthy young woman—”

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Madame Annette, a rake-thin grey-haired woman with sharp eyes, whose thick French accent was superseded in moments of stress by the nasal twang of her native Ipswich. She gushed, “
Madame la marquise,
you honor my humble establishment. How may I serve you today?” Still dazed by her discovery, Ginevra had to think hard to remember the purpose of her errand. “The orchid-colored lace gown you included in my trousseau,” she said after a moment, indicating the long box that Susan held out. “The style and cut are exceptionally attractive, but my husband feels the color does not become me, and he has instructed me to ask if you would make a new dress, in another color, something softer.” She recited her instructions by rote, realizing even as she did that soon the style and cut of the dress might be unsuitable as well.

The woman did not seem to notice her distraction. She held the gown to Ginevra’s face and studied it critically.

“
Oui, monsieur le marquis
is correct as usual. This fabric is far too matronly for you, the purple color makes Madame’s beautiful complexion look dull and sallow. I shall go
toute de suite
and personally choose something that will complement that young skin
comme la peche
.”

Ginevra watched her go, and she wondered what the woman would say if she told her that a few months before, her wardrobe had consisted entirely of sturdy, graceless dresses she had fashioned herself. She suspected that few of Annette’s customers would even know how to thread a needle.

When the door from the lobby opened, Ginevra paid no attention, instead musing dreamily about the strange and wonderful changes that had come into her life in the past several months, the even greater changes yet to come. She did not notice the tall woman who loomed over her, shredding a swatch of fabric with her long crimson fingernails, until she uttered harshly, “Mon
Dieu,
so he sends you here for your dresses as well! I did not realize that he was so partial to Annette’s designs—or perhaps it is simply that he finds it easier to maintain one account for both his wife and his mistress!”

Ginevra looked up at the statuesque beauty and recoiled instinctively from the hatred radiating unmasked from her, now that they were alone. Beside Ginevra, Susan gasped, and the girl’s patent fear revived Ginevra’s waning courage. She held up one hand in silent warning to the maid, and she stared back at the striking red-haired woman who towered over her. She must never ever let the Frenchwoman know that she rattled her. She said coolly, “Madame de Villeneuve, when you try to cause a scene in this manner, you do nothing but play the fool.”

Amalie was shaken and infuriated by Ginevra’s unbreachable confidence. She was not used to being bested by other women, especially not half-fledged girls, and her frustration made her crude. “
Merde
!” she snorted. “You are the one being played for a fool. Do you fancy he is in love with you? Not two days after he married you he came back to my bed!”

“Yes, I know,” Ginevra said quietly, her expression impassive, although inside she felt limp with relief. How ironic that Amalie’s charge, intended to devastate her, had quite the opposite effect. Two days after the wedding he would yet have been reeling from Ginevra’s rejection, and, thwarted and angry, he would have sought out the woman in order to reaffirm his manhood. Of course it hurt to think of him touching Amalie, but Ginevra could accept his action, knowing that the fault was partly her own. The pain would have been less bearable had he gone to his mistress after consummating his marriage to Ginevra. She said again, “Yes, I know he went to you. You serve a cold dish.” She turned to her maid, who listened with an ashen face, gossip in the servants’ quarters never having prepared her for a situation like this. Susan was speechless with admiration at the way her lady said evenly, with subtle emphasis, “Please go tell Madame Annette that I must insist on privacy for my fittings. If she feels she cannot provide it, I shall be forced to take my custom elsewhere.”

“At once, my lady,” the girl gulped, plunging toward the door the dressmaker had disappeared through. In seconds she returned with the woman, who was laden with two great bolts of fabric. “
Ma chère
Madame Chadwick,” she trilled, “I have found just the thing for you. This pale pink
peau de soie
will look
tres ravissante
made up in that style you like, and while I was looking I also found—” She choked off her words when she noticed Amalie’s presence in the room. After a moment’s frozen shock her shrewdly assessing eyes quickly flicked between the two women, the young wife who radiated serene self-assurance, the overblown mistress whose star seemed to be in eclipse.

With a rush Amalie began, “I want to see those new Chinese silks you—”

Ginevra interrupted sweetly but firmly, “I really must have privacy, or I shan’t be able to make a selection.” Annette was galvanized into action, her decision made. She dropped the rolls of fabric into Susan’s arms and stalked over to Amalie, grabbing her roughly with bony, work-hardened fingers and propelling her toward the door.

Amalie, used to unctuous deference in her position as
chère amie
to a prominent man, demanded, “How dare you! Have you forgotten I’m one of your best customers?”

“Not when you make trouble in my shop, you ain’t, dearie,” Annette growled, all trace of Paris absent from her voice. “Now, be sensible and get out before I have to call my clerk to help me.”

Still Amalie resisted. She twisted from the seamstress’s grasp and ran back to Ginevra, who was delicately fingering the silky texture of a bolt of honey-colored wool. Amalie looked down at the gleaming golden curls on that bent head, and she shouted with loathing, “He’ll abandon you too, you know! He always does. He despises women!”

Ginevra resolutely ignored her. She said to her maid, “Tell me, Susan, how do you think this would do for a riding habit for this autumn? Is the color too light to be serviceable?”

Susan laughed. “Oh,, my lady, you’d better give up all thought of riding, at least until next spring.”

“Yes, I expect you’re right,” Ginevra agreed, her hand straying self-consciously to her abdomen again.

When Amalie heard this exchange, she was so stunned that she went peaceably when Madame Annette and her clerk ejected her from the shop.

Pregnant! she thought with a mixture of grudging admiration and disgust as she guided her yellow-wheeled curricle through the midday traffic. The little bitch was
enceinte.
No wonder she felt confident of her power over Chadwick: she had pulled off the one trick Amalie had never dared try, fearing it might prove as bad a miscalculation as her marriage all those years before to a young subaltern she erroneously thought was a close relation of the admiral who killed Nelson. More than once Amalie had considered “forgetting” the piece of vinegar-soaked sponge she always placed carefully deep in her vagina before the marquess’s calls, but no—there was no guarantee he would marry her, and she was not about to risk her figure or her health for a brat that would quickly have to be foisted off to the baby-farmers. And if Chadwick had somehow got the idea that the child was not his...

Amalie was strangely thoughtful as she drove toward Hyde Park. She knew now that she had lost the marquess forever. She had been far too confident, had overplayed her hand, and that whey-faced little chit had taken the trick. But Amalie was not a woman to accept defeat meekly; the deeper strains of her Creole blood demanded satisfaction, revenge. She guided her horses into the park and began to make the slow circuit. A handful of starers loitered behind the rails and gawked at her, awed by the dashing red-haired beauty who dared to drive her own curricle publicly. Their admiration was mild balm to her wounded vanity, but she wasted no time on them. She was depressed by the small number of vehicles in the park, evidence of the annual flight of fashionable society. She ought to have gone off to Brighton and charmed one of the royal dukes, instead of hanging around London like a lovesick girl, waiting for Chadwick to call on her. Perhaps she could get the Carstairs boy to take her to the seashore. He was reasonably attractive, rich, and ripe for the plucking, and only the futile hope that she could re-gain her hold on Chadwick had kept Amalie from seducing him. Now that the marquess was gone, she supposed she ought to use her wiles on the lad. Perhaps it would relax her; certainly it would require little effort. Boys were utterly gullible and so cocky about their attraction that they never questioned a woman’s motives. They always seemed to think that they were the first man ever to have an erection ... Yes, it might be amusing to see the expression on that
guenon
Lady Carstairs’ face when she found out her little “angel” had been—what would she call it?—debauched. But before Amalie could enjoy spiting the old hag, she first had to think of a way to pay back Chadwick for spuming her.

From across the circuit Amalie noticed with interest a lone rider gazing at her, and she tilted her head down so that she could study him unobserved from under the brim of her stylish bonnet. Extremely young, but tail and fair. Well-dressed, and that grey stallion was certainly a bit of prime blood. Her black eyes widened with surprise when she recognized him.
Ma foi,
the little boy was growing up! And from the way he stared at her, he found her as fascinating as his father had done, once upon a time.