The Tutor (House of Lords) (15 page)

“I don’t know. I don’t understand what you mean.” Her voice was beginning to tremble.

He began to pace. “It seems as though I’m courting two different women. There’s the Cynthia from last night, the sweet, open, perfect woman I love, the woman who took pity on that poor child in Pall Mall, and then there’s this Cynthia, the one who hides behind a mask and never puts a toe out of line. I don’t particularly like this Cynthia. I’d like the other one back, if you please.”

“And if she never comes back?” Cynthia asked softly.

He stopped pacing and stared at her. Then he began walking towards her, very slowly. “Then I may have to take matters into my own hands,” he said. He put his hands on her waist and pulled her towards him. His lips brushed against her forehead.

“I feel as though I’m going mad,” she whispered. “It’s like the father in Tristram Shandy, winding his clock.” Her hands were shaking as she gripped his lapels. “Every time I think I’ve conquered, that I can go out into society and just be me, the fear takes over. The society belle—that’s what I call her—is the only way I can do it, the only way I can pass among them.”

“You don’t need her,” he said. He spread his palms against her back and rubbed in slow circles. She leaned her head against his shoulder. “You are perfect just the way you are. This Cynthia, the vulnerable, real woman, is the one I love.”

Against his chest, she said, “That’s the third time you’ve said that.”

“I’ll say it again,” he said, no longer afraid to reveal his feelings. “I love you. I think I’ve loved you since the moment you called me stupid.”

She turned her face up to his. “Thank you, Charles,” she said. Then she went up on her toes and kissed him. Her fingers left his lapels and slid up into his hair, and her tongue slid against his lips. He opened his mouth to her, and his hands drifted lower, cupping her and lifting her against the hardness of his erection. She moaned against his mouth. He reached back up and began undoing her laces. When he had them loose he shrugged out of his coat. Then he helped her slip out of her gown. She did not wear a corset, and he could see the dark circles of her nipples through her chemise. He reached for the tie of her petticoats but before he could undo it she dropped to her knees and pulled off first one of his boots and then the other, and then reached for the buttons of his trousers. The sight of her kneeling before him with her petticoats spread around her made him even harder. When she had pulled off his trousers and his smalls and studied the length of him, pursing her lips a little, her delicate fingers gliding up the outsides of his thighs. It was agony. The she lifted one finger and slid it along his length. “Cynthia,” he groaned, “what do you mean to do?”

“Don’t ask questions,” she said, “just feel.”

Then her tongue followed the path her finger had traced from the base of his shaft to the tip. When she took him in her mouth he almost collapsed from the pleasure coursing through his whole body. She sucked gently and then moved her mouth up and down, making him shudder with delight. “Oh, God,” he muttered.

She withdrew. “Doesn’t it feel good?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, “but if you don’t stop now we’ll never make it to the bed, and I have been wanting to take you in it for days.”

“Well, then,” she said, and she stood, her fingers finding the buttons of his waistcoat and then his cravat. He leaned down and slid one strap of her chemise from her shoulder, kissing the smooth skin there as he did. Then the other strap fell, and he untied her petticoats as she pushed his shirt from his shoulders. When they were both naked he put his hands on her waist and lifted her, helping her wrap her legs around him, and ravaged her mouth as he carried her to the bed. They fell together onto the coverlet. He lifted one of her legs and braced it on his shoulder as he thrust into her. She gasped. “I didn’t know you could—oh, Charles, that feels so—”

“Good,” he finished for her. Then he buried himself inside her, and she matched his rhythm, rocking beneath him. She bit her lip. “It’s all right,” he said, “you can scream if you like.”

She did. She called out his name and put her hands on his chest. He felt her climax and then he joined her, pumping into her until he was completely spent. Then he collapsed on top of her.

After a moment he withdrew and lay beside her, propping himself up on one elbow, the other hand splayed across her stomach. “I think,” he whispered, pressing his lips to her shoulder, “you are at your most beautiful at this very moment.”

“Mmm,” she said. “We never looked at those
Hansards
.”

With a groan he forced himself up out of bed. The books were still waiting where he had dropped them by the door. He scooped them up and brought them over to the bed.

She laughed and opened the first, spreading it across the sheets. “All right,” she said, “Let’s begin with the king’s speech.”

SIXTEEN

He had said he loved her. Three times. Cynthia mulled over that fact in the carriage on the way home, not forgetting, of course, that she hadn’t said it back.

Did she love him?

Perhaps she did. She had only ever loved one person in her life, and though she was very attached to Clarissa, she was certain that falling in love was quite a different thing from the sisterly affection they shared.

But she would not know if she loved him, or if he truly loved her, until she had told him the truth about herself. She had meant to this afternoon, had gone to Danforth House grimly determined to reveal her secret and accept the consequences. But he had seen through her again, had recognized the mask she wore and stripped it away. There was no hiding from him.

It was Lady Bathurst’s ball that evening. Afterwards, she would ask him to come to her again and she would tell him. Then their liaison would be over. But she would always have her memories of the pleasure they had shared. She was not a bit sorry that she had given herself to him.

But it would make it harder to watch him walk away from her tonight.

The carriage arrived at Cavendish Square. Cynthia allowed the footman to hand her out, glancing down the street as she did so. The man was there again, this time walking down the street from the corner as though heading for an appointment. He pulled out his pocket-watch as he neared her and then crossed the street as if he was in haste. But as he did, Cynthia caught a glimpse of his left ear with its missing lobe.

It was him.

“Oh, Miss,” a voice said. Cynthia turned, forgetting about the man, and saw Annabeth, the little girl from Pall Mall, hiding next to the stairs leading up to the front door.

“Annabeth!” Cynthia cried. The girl was every bit as grimy and poorly clothed as she had been the day before, but she appeared a little more confident when she saw Cynthia.

“I’ve been watching him, Miss, watching you. I got here an hour ago and he’s been here the last ten minutes or so,” Annabeth said, nodding in the direction the man had gone. “Don’t like that one. He’s shifty.”

Cynthia was no longer worried about the man. When she had pressed her card into Annabeth’s hand she had never imagined that the child would seek her out, though she had hoped for it, of course. “Come into the house,” she said now. “Come and have something to eat.”

Annabeth looked horrified. “Oh, no, Miss, I couldn’t. I just came to…I came because I didn’t say thank you, yesterday. For everything.”

Cynthia smiled. “You’re very welcome, Annabeth.”

“No one’s ever tried to help me before, not without trying to make me go to the workhouse,” the girl went on.

“Are you sure you won’t come in?” She couldn’t very well force the child into the house, she knew. But the girl looked so desperately hungry. “I’ll tell you what. Come around to the back door. I’ll have Cook put together a bundle for you.”

Annabeth grinned. She had white, even teeth. She had not always been poor, Cynthia thought, or at least not quite as desperately poor as she appeared now. Perhaps if she could gain the child’s trust she could get her to share her story. But it would do no good to frighten her or try to force her to do something she didn’t want to do.

The idea of a bundle of food seemed to be too much to refuse, however. Annabeth smiled. “All right, Miss,” she said.

“Only on one condition, Annabeth,” Cynthia said. The girl stared up at her, rapt. “You must never try to follow that man or find out who he is. Forget him. Take care of yourself.”

“I will, Miss,” the girl said.

Cynthia went through the house and called for Cook, who grudgingly made up a parcel of cakes and tarts and dried meat. But when Annabeth smiled at her and thanked her kindly for the food, even Cook cracked a grin and said, “It’s nothing.”

Annabeth turned to go. But as she reached the last step, she turned. “Miss? Would you thank your friend for me, too?”

“Of course,” Cynthia said.

When Annabeth had gone, Cynthia turned her thoughts back to the strange man with the missing earlobe.

She had first noticed him the day after her father left for Oxford. Since learning about the experiment, Cynthia had sometimes wondered if her father was having her followed. Once before—a year ago now—she had noticed a man following her while her father was away in Berlin for a month. He had been very discreet, and she had only noticed him because she had broken her expected routine and stayed home from a dinner she had planned to attend. But she was almost certain it had been this same man.

If so, it was almost certain her father was behind it. Cynthia did not give it much thought. The man would report what he chose, and her father would do as he pleased with the information. Annabeth might have been worried about him, but he had done Cynthia no harm, and she doubted he ever would. With all the other invasions she had endured on her privacy over the years, this one seemed relatively minor. She brushed off her worry and thought instead about that evening’s ball.

She wore the brand-new gown her father had ordered for her. He had chosen every detail down to the color, a rich, deep red that highlighted her coloring. When Ellen had finished with her hair and had tightened the last laces, she looked every inch the society belle. The Cynthia Charles loved was nowhere to be seen in her reflection. Perhaps that was for the best.

It was not long before Mallory announced that the duke was waiting in the hall for her. She went down to him, not failing to notice the way his jaw dropped a little when he saw her. She knew she was a formidable sight.

“I must say, you look quite ravishing,” he said when she reached him. He took her hand and kissed it. She was suddenly very conscious of Mallory’s eyes upon them.

Imogen was waiting in the carriage and greeted her warmly as Charles handed her in. “Cynthia!” she cried, kissing her cheek. “We were so sorry to miss you this afternoon. Gillian is quite determined that you must stay for tea tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Cynthia said.

She listened to Imogen and Charles discussing the preparations for Gillian’s come-out as they rode through the dark streets to the Bathurst mansion. The lavish ball that was being planned sounded so monstrously expensive it made Cynthia’s eyes pop. But she supposed poor Gillian had earned it, having her debut postponed a year after her father’s death.

Lady Bathurst seemed quite overcome by the honor of Charles’s attendance at her ball. “She’s like that with everyone,” Imogen said quietly as she and Cynthia made their way into the ballroom. “I can’t decide whether it’s a shrewd plot to flatter everyone or the product of her childhood as a shopkeeper’s daughter. But it is good of her to have this ball every year.”

Cynthia nodded, not really paying attention. They had arrived fashionably late, and the ballroom was already full of people who had turned their attention in her direction. Probably hoping for a repeat performance of last week’s ball, Cynthia decided.

“The vultures are circling,” Charles said in her ear. “Save the waltzes for me and let’s really set them reeling.”

Cynthia couldn’t help it. She grinned. He had that effect on her—no matter how terrible things seemed, she could count on him to react in exactly the way that made it all seem better.

Clarissa and her husband appeared then. Taking Cynthia’s hands, Clarissa said, “Take a turn around the room with me.”

“Of course,” Cynthia agreed, looping her arm through Clarissa’s.

“He chose that dress, didn’t he?” Clarissa asked before they were even out of earshot of their party.

Cynthia nodded. “Would you think I picked this color?”

“No, though it is quite becoming on you. But I don’t want to talk about your dress.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Have you decided whether you will accept him or not?” Clarissa asked.

Cynthia shook her head. “But I am going to tell him the truth tonight,” she said. “I cannot delay it any longer. This afternoon he told me that he loves me.”

Clarissa practically squealed with excitement. “I’m thrilled to hear it! And do you love him?”

Cynthia frowned.

“It’s not an academic question, Cynthia. You cannot prove it with definitive evidence or test it in a laboratory. This is something you have to feel in your heart.”

“I don’t think I was ever taught to fall in love,” Cynthia said.

“Neither was I. And yet here I am,” she said, flushing a little as she looked across the room at her husband. Cynthia did not miss the secret smile that passed between them. “I don’t think it’s something you can be taught. It just…well, it just happens.”

“After tonight I have a strong suspicion that it won’t be happening to me,” Cynthia said as they neared the windows on the far side of the ballroom. Glancing back, she saw Charles watching her intently.

Clarissa saw him, too. “I wouldn’t be so certain. Perhaps he is worthy of you, after all, Cynthia. But listen: what will you do at the end of the week if you don’t decide to marry him?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“You will come to stay with us. Anders and I talked about it this morning.”

“Oh, no, Clarissa, I wouldn’t wish to impose.”

“Nonsense. You are the only sister I will ever have. You would be welcome. All the same, I will hold out hope that you will be forming your own establishment soon.”

Cynthia smiled. “You may hope all you like, Clarissa,” she said.

They had circled back around the room, and she saw that Lord Sidney and his party had arrived. Something must have happened between him and Charles, for the two of them were talking amiably. Lord Sidney asked Cynthia for the first dance, which was just beginning. Cynthia agreed, grateful that at least she would not sit out the first dance. But after it was over, Lord Stowe asked her for the next, and then the other gentlemen seemed to take their cue. Mr. Goring and Mr. Altington each asked her to dance, and then it was time for her waltz with Charles.

Cynthia could hear the hush that fell over the ballroom as they took their places. Everyone watched expectantly, surely dreaming that there might be another entertaining scandal.

“We will be quite proper,” Charles said, grinning like a schoolboy. “See, we are the requisite distance apart and everything. Will you promise not to flee the ballroom this time?”

“I think I can safely make such a promise,” she said as the music began. She gave herself over to it, spinning and gliding in his arms. He smiled charmingly and commented on the ball and the other dancers. She was certain they looked like a perfectly ordinary pair, dancing across the floor with the rest of them.

When the music finally ended, she let him lead her in to dinner. Lord Sidney and his sister sat with them, and Miss Chesney chatted brightly, asking Cynthia about her gown and if she had read Tennyson’s latest work.

It felt like a normal evening. Cynthia could imagine spending a thousand more just like it with Charles. She could fit with these people, she knew. They could become her friends. And the rest of polite society appeared to have forgiven her whatever sins she had committed. The matrons smiled and spoke sweetly to her. Other young women greeted her as if they had not been gossiping about her the last five days without stop.

When the evening was over, and Charles was escorting her to her door again, she asked, “Will I see you tonight?”

“Count upon it,” he replied, his eyes saying what his words did not. She forced herself to meet them confidently.

Then he was gone, and she went upstairs to change and wait for him to come back again.

This time, as he walked down the alley, Charles was certain the Rat followed him. He was nothing more than a shadowy presence, a figure that might have been ambling down the road, but there was a slight hesitation in his casual saunter. He was waiting to see what Charles would do.

Well, he had seen the night before, too. Charles didn’t bother trying to hide his destination, but leaped over the wall and went up the path with deliberate assurance, as though he had every right in the world to be doing such a thing. It had occurred to him that perhaps the Rat was not following him but Cynthia, but he had dismissed the idea. If the Rat was a spy for Roger Endersby, surely the man himself would have appeared today after hearing about last night’s events.

Cynthia was waiting for him in the darkened hall, wearing only her filmy nightdress. He could see her silhouette in the moonlight. “Hello again,” he said, pressing her up against the wall and kissing her soundly. Then he scooped her up in his arms and carried her to her room. Once there, he dropped her onto the bed and began removing his cravat. She rose up on her knees to help him undress, her lips meeting his with a tenderness that surprised him.

He made love to her slowly, gently, without the wild and reckless abandon he had felt before. It was still there, that desperate need for her, but now that he knew he wanted to make love to her for the rest of their lives, the crazed urgency gave way to sweet, leisurely pleasure. When she came, she sighed beneath him, closing her eyes and giving way to the bliss that took them both. In that moment he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to be together like this for all the years to come, to have children and a real, shared life. And he wanted it, craved it in a way he had never desired anything before. He brushed her hair from her face and kissed her tenderly when he came, and the sensation of love flooded through him.

Later, as he cradled her in his arms, both of them half asleep, he whispered, “You were magnificent tonight.”

“Why, thank you,” she said, giggling.

“I meant at the ball. You were masterful. You faced all those gossips and prudes down as though you had ice in your veins. Why does it seem, sometimes, as though you were raised to be a duchess?”

She stiffened in his arms. He felt her pull away from him a little. She turned onto her back and looked up at him, her face grave and solemn.

“Because,” Cynthia said, her voice suddenly very soft, “I
was
raised to be a duchess.”

He stared down at her. He might have thought she was joking, but her tone was so serious that he asked,
 
“What does that mean?”