Clandestine Passion (The Lovelocks of London Book 2)

Catherine shivered. There was a chill in the air despite the cloudless blue sky. Madame Beauchamp’s shop was as frigid as before, even with a little stove going in the fitting chamber and the bright light from the skylight above. It was probably the skylight that was letting in so much of the cold.

With the worry and business of getting Arabella off safely with the Dalrymples, Catherine had delayed the fitting of her blue silk gown. Only now, over three weeks later, with Sir Francis Ffoulkes’ house party looming, had she finally managed to cajole by messenger an appointment with Madame Beauchamp. Surprisingly, when Catherine had arrived at the shop, Madame Beauchamp had been alone, opening the door by key from the inside, causing the bell hanging over the door to jingle loudly, and then shutting the door again just as quickly and relocking it. Perhaps the absence of all of her helpers was the reason why the fitting was taking so long?

Catherine had been standing alone in the large fitting chamber, on the platform, in just her petticoat, for at least ten minutes. First, Madame Beauchamp had cursed because her seamstresses had made the blue silk dress far too long. She had taken shears and viciously slashed a foot from the unhemmed bottom. It was still too long, but Madame herself would pin it as part of the fitting once Catherine had put it on.

No, no, no, Madame Beauchamp insisted that Catherine must wear a particular low-cut chemise and special stays with quite daring cups for the fitting. She would fetch it now for la Veuve Lovelock. She, Madame Beauchamp, had had the custom undergarments made, knowing Catherine would need them for her new dress. Take off those stays and that chemise immédiatement, she had commanded, holding up a long, bony finger and shaking it before whipping out of the room.

Catherine hardly liked to admit that she was afraid of Madame Beauchamp, especially when she wielded scissors. The modiste was quite severe and temperamental in that very French way. So, when Madame Beauchamp had commanded “Restez!” without even a s’il vous plaît, Catherine had taken her literally and not even stepped off the platform to get something to cover her bare shoulders and breasts.

And now she was in this awkward position. Cold. Half-naked. Stranded on the platform. Well, at least there were no pins poking into her. And she should be able to manage to stand on the platform for at least half an hour more. Had she not played Hermione in The Winter’s Tale and appeared frozen as a statue for quite a long time?

That was all she was good for these days, being a dull statue.

Catherine could hear some talking through the thin walls of the fitting chamber and wondered if another customer or another seamstress had arrived. The talk grew louder, more agitated.

The door opened and Catherine reflexively covered her breasts with her arms and turned her head toward the door, ready to smile and pretend she was not vexed by her wait.

But the person who backed into the fitting chamber was not Madame Beauchamp or any of her seamstresses.

It was the most dangerous man in London.

Most dangerous for her, that is.

Jamie.

She immediately recognized him. He gave her a brief view of his profile before he crouched slightly, with his back to her, listening. James, the boy-man with the gray eyes and the lazy grin. The one who over the last half-year had wandered into her dreams and played with her lust demon there so that she would wake up gasping, her pelvis clenching, wet between her legs, released.

She had met him several times last spring since he was friends with her then-future son-in-law Thomas Drake. That had been—oh, horrors!—when the Earl Drake had been courting her. She had foolishly encouraged Thomas’ calls only in the hope that he would bring his friend with him. Because then she could have a few minutes of being in the same room with James. A few minutes when she might surreptitiously gaze at James Cavendish, Marquess of Daventry and imagine doing wicked things with him. A few minutes when she might unwisely let the lust demon out of the shackles. Just for an exploratory sniff. A romp. Nothing more.

But Catherine had not tempted James. He had expressed no interest in her, despite his reputation as a cad. And that was for the best, she told herself, even as the lust demon bit and scratched and screamed on its way back into its cage.

Finally, Thomas Drake, desperate for money, had asked for her hand. Catherine had refused Thomas’ proposal only for him to enter into a highly profitable marriage of convenience with her frail, eccentric stepdaughter Harry. Catherine bitterly regretted ever allowing Thomas or James to call at her house. Thomas, because the well-known cocksman had taken the innocent Harry away from Catherine’s care and protection. And James, because she was still clearly infatuated with the gorgeous rascal even though she had not been near him since Harry and Thomas’ wedding.

She had seen him only in her dreams, and his ongoing presence there was disturbing. Disturbing enough to cause her to seek the refuge of marriage to Sir Francis Ffoulkes. Yes, disturbing, yet bearable.

But this was no dream. James was within ten feet of her. His thick, curly brown hair with glints of gold. The perfect skin over his jaw. Those square shoulders in his green tailcoat. That youth, that beauty.

And there was something new about him. Something different. She did wonder at . . . his intentness. There was no sign of the louche rake. The tipsy fellow was gone. He seemed to be all business.

Serious. Keen. Determined.

The boy-man had vanished. There was only man.

A devastating wash of desire spread over her and she could sense the throbbing pulse of her own slick arousal between her legs. Her chill fled. Warmth spread from her groin to her bosom. Paradoxically, her nipples, previously erect from the cold, became even more prominent with these licking flames, poking into her forearms that shielded her breasts.

She had to have this man. This James. She must. She was eighteen years of age again, staring into the maw of ruinous lust. And she was very afraid. Afraid and aroused, simultaneously.

She sneezed. Just a little sneeze. She couldn’t help it.

He turned. His eyes, those gray pools that now seemed slightly green to match his coat, went from alert and defensive to astonished.

And she was immediately angry. She didn’t want him to see her like this, half-dressed, covering her breasts with her arms, unprepared for him. Up on a high platform. Better to have been fully naked, she thought, solidly on the floor. Then I might have some idea of who I am.

But she knew the answer. A weak woman. A wanton woman. A depraved woman. That’s who she was. In lust with a man who before had seemed wholly inappropriate and now only seemed wholly desirable.

Except she already knew he didn’t want her. She was too old for him. And she flushed with anger all over again.

He closed the door completely and put his finger to his lips.

He wanted her quiet.

She’d show him quiet.

She very deliberately took her arms from her breasts and put her hands on her hips, elbows out, fully displaying herself. Except for the dratted petticoat.

He gulped. His eyes skittered away.

She was delighted to find she had discomfited him. She had produced the desired effect. Let the rake be on his back foot for once.

James had been following the limping Marquis René Dubois through the streets of Soho for the last half an hour. He seemed to be heading toward Westminster or Mayfair.

James knew the ambassador from France by sight, having met him at various court-related functions. He had followed the Marquis Dubois today because he had seen him enter and then leave Sir Francis’ town house this morning. He had had no notion of a connection between the two men. It seemed suspicious that the French Ambassador would pay a morning call on a rather insignificant, if wealthy, baronet. Perhaps Dubois’ association with Ffoulkes was the whole reason Bulverton was interested in Ffoulkes in the first place?

James had been given no direction by Mr. Bulverton in regards to Ffoulkes, just to gather gossip and to stay close. But James was impatient. When was he going to be trusted to do more? Hadn’t he proven himself? It was time for him to act independently in matters of surveillance. He began watching Ffoulkes, his house, his carriage.

The Marquis Dubois was easy to follow since he had a slow and most unusual gait. He used a walking stick and wore a wooden leg, having lost a good part of the original limb while fighting for France under Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte. Dubois’ knee had been smashed to pieces by a small-caliber ball, and he had requested the army surgeon amputate the leg on the battlefield.

One story about Dubois making the rounds in London was that when his valet wept upon seeing his master’s injury, Dubois had said, “What are you crying about, man? You have one less boot to polish!”

James thought that was a rather cracking thing to say, even if Dubois was a Frenchman.

Strolling slowly, James had window-shopped and even gone into a jeweler’s to inquire about a particular watch, secure in the knowledge that Dubois could not get too far ahead of him. Coming out of the shop, however, he almost missed Dubois turning a corner down an alley. James hurried now and when he got to the alley he walked past it, shooting a casual glance down the length of it.

No sign of Dubois. Blazes. Where had he gone?

James walked around the corner, looking at the shopfronts, considering which of the doors in the alleyway Dubois could have disappeared into. A milliner’s, another jeweler’s, a coffeehouse, a dressmaker’s. Oh, yes, the very modiste’s shop he had passed the other day and playfully thought of entering in disguise.

The sign above the shop said the modiste was Madame Beauchamp. His older sisters favored her for their ball gowns. They said Madame Beauchamp was a genius, a tartar, and she actually was French. That sounded promising. But the shop looked empty and the front door was locked.

James went back to the alley and counted off the doors. That one should be for the modiste. And it was ajar.

He hesitated.

Hang it all.

He slipped in the door.

He could hear arguing coming from the front of the shop. A quiet man’s voice. That was Dubois. A woman’s voice, loud. They both spoke in French, naturellement.

“—she is here now but I think we will find nothing. I asked some questions of her, you know, the last time she came. And she never brings her lady’s maid with her. I will have to find another way—”

Then Dubois’ voice. But James could not make out what he said.

The woman again. “—I wish you had told me that before. You force me to work in the dark. You see, I encouraged her last time, you know, about matters of the heart and I am making her a dress that will ensure a proposal—”

James crept past empty sewing and cutting tables, scraps of lace and fabric on the floor, half-finished dresses on dress forms. A set of stays with scandalously low-cut cups made of a translucent material was strewn across one table.

The woman’s voice, louder, “—so there is already a proposal? But she has not answered him? Surely, this is a good thing and it means she will say no—”

The voices seemed to be coming even closer.

He ducked through a door and into another room just as Dubois and a tall woman came around the corner arguing in French. He very softly closed the door and listened at the crack.

Madame Beauchamp was arguing that she needed more money. She had spent a great deal bribing lady’s maids to get all these different letters the marquis wanted and she needed to cover her expenses.

Dubois answered that the money would be no problem, because the brother of the beef, after all, had twenty million francs. She would be paid. And then they would come to the rescue of the beef . . . what did he say? No, not beef or boeuf, but veuf. Le veuf. The widower.

A small sneeze behind him. Almost not a sneeze. The very smallest of kerchews.

His heart stopped. The room had been empty, hadn’t it? He had come in so quickly, he hadn’t really looked but he had heard nothing, seen no movement.

He turned slowly.

A goddess stood above him in a shaft of sunlight. Her hair was of gold. Delicate brows over large, brilliant blue eyes. A nose that was perfection. Generous lips. Inch after inch of perfect pink-and-cream skin. True, she wore a petticoat, but above the waist, she was all naked luscious flesh, just her arms shielding her breasts. And he had no problem imagining the curves of her lower abdomen, her hips, her legs under the petticoat.

It was Catherine Lovelock.

The last woman he wanted to see.

The woman who was just pure enticement. Who still distracted his thoughts, although he had not seen her for months. Not since the wedding of his friend Thomas and her stepdaughter Harry.

He still remembered his puzzlingly enormous relief when Thomas told him that Catherine had refused him. Why should he have cared? James had no plans to pursue a woman, any woman. He had worked hard to create his reputation, what Mr. Bulverton called his “cover,” and he worked hard to maintain it. He could not risk it by getting involved with a female. Any female.

But now, looking at her, his ardor, his admiration—nay, his worship—came flooding back.

Yes, she was a goddess. But she was no placid goddess of love. She was rigid with . . . fear? Anger? Anger, he decided. She was a goddess of the hunt, perhaps, or of war, absent a metal breastplate. Seeing the knitting of her blonde brows, the opening of her full lips as if to speak—

He held his finger to his own lips.

She closed her mouth and compressed her lips. And took her arms away from her breasts.

Those breasts. Full and round and heavy. Large, pale-pink areolas on creamy skin. Crowned with darker-rose nipples the size of a holly berry. Everything and more that he had imagined when he had looked down at her bosom at Lady Huxley’s ball seven months ago.

Thank God, the flow of French continued unabated outside the room and the voices seemed to be moving farther away.

He saw a length of blue silk on the floor and went to it quickly. He did not think he would have enough reason for what might follow unless he could get her to cover her breasts again.

But when he held the fabric out to her and she took it from him and wound it around her torso so that her bosom was covered, he cursed himself.

He would likely never gaze on those breasts again.

He was only slightly comforted that he could still see the topography of her erect nipples pressing through the fine silk.

Catherine supposed she could take pity on James. But why should she? His very presence was maddening and arousing to her—he took no pity on her. But still she flattened her breasts with the blue silk and then crossed the fabric behind her back and brought it up over her shoulders, tucking the ends into the band she had made.

James stepped closer to her and crooked his finger. He dwarfed her by more than a foot but on the high platform, she had to lean down for her face to be even with his.

James moved even closer. She saw the merest trace of golden-brown stubble under his nose and on his chin. Mmmmmm. So the boyish jaw she had seen on every other occasion was just due to his valet’s skill. He could grow a mustache and beard if he chose.

A wide mouth with lips that he quickly moistened with his tongue. Long, golden-brown lashes fringed his pellucid gray eyes. His face leaned in even closer to hers but veered at the last moment to the side, almost skimming her cheek, as he put his mouth to her ear.

“I must have you—” he rasped.

An unutterably sweet twinge in her groin as her breath hitched.

He repeated himself, “I must have you quiet, I beg you.”

She nodded, a small movement of her head.

He went on, his breath lightly stirring the curls by her ear: “I must leave without being observed. This is of the utmost importance.”

Her mind raced with questions. Which she answered herself.

Of course. Why else would he be here at the shop of a modiste? He had come with a young mistress to help select garments, perhaps even clothes for seduction, but he now feared being caught by someone. A husband? A father? Another lover of the girl?

Her lips were by his ear as well. “Is your life in danger, Lord Daventry?” she managed to choke out, trying to give her words a hint of mockery.

“The short answer is . . . maybe, Mrs. Lovelock,” he whispered back. Then he pulled his head away from hers and looked in her eyes.

This was a new man. She hadn’t met this man, the one who stood before her. This was a man of vigor, of potency. The beautiful youth of fantasy had stirred her loins dozens of times in the night, but now she felt a gnawing ache deep in her chest for this . . . man.

She did not want that ache. She knew that ache. That ache heralded pure pain. She thought she would never experience that ache again. The ache that meant the destruction of her carefully constructed life. Her life of safety. Security. Sanity.

She had a sudden urge to cry out in protest, but she bit her lip and constrained herself. She didn’t dare make a sound that could be heard.

Because if he was here with a mistress and was caught by some other man because of Catherine—why, he might have to duel a father or a husband or a lover.

He could be injured. He could be killed. He might be forced to marry.

All three outcomes were unthinkably tragic. And it would be her fault.

She held out her hand to be helped down from the platform but the portable set of stairs had been kicked away by Madame Beauchamp once Catherine had climbed them. James chose to ignore her hand and instead put his hat back on his head and placed both of his hands on the bare skin of her waist and easily lifted her down. He was strong enough—and chivalrous enough—to hold her apart from him as she made the short trip to the floor. She would have welcomed being crushed against his torso, even if for just a moment, just as she had been when she tripped on the cathedral steps at the wedding of Harry and Thomas.

Still, was it her imagination, or did he whisper, “upsidaisy” as he lifted her down? And did his hands linger on her waist long after she was safely on the floor?

Her skin was soft velvet, and his fingers and thumbs touched each other as he spanned her waist with his hands. And without a corset or stays. He only dropped his hands from her waist when she leaned over to pull off her heeled slippers and the blue silk seemed in danger of slipping. But no. The cloth stayed wrapped and tucked.

She tiptoed, barefooted, across the parquet floor, and he followed, equally silent in his well-oiled boots, admiring her smooth, white back. He almost reached out to stroke her spine as it rose out of her petticoat into the delectable curve of her lower back, but he clenched his fist instead.

A large cheval glass stood in the far corner. She gestured and together, they shifted the mirror. Behind was a narrow door. She put one hand on the knob and the other on his forearm and lightly pressed down on the sleeve of his coat.

He leaned over, and she whispered, “It’s a lover’s door.”

Despite their surroundings and the danger of discovery, his desire surged at hearing Catherine say the word “lover.” That word in her mouth. Her breath brushing his ear. He flashed on the two of them on a bed, her curls tossed on the pillows, his mouth on her shoulder, her small hands pulling him into her. Her beautiful breasts again exposed to him and his eyes, his hands, his tongue. He felt his pelvis moving toward her, aching and wanting. His cock, which had stirred to life at the first sight of the goddess, throbbed and stiffened. He thought of raising her petticoat and scooping her up off her feet and impaling her with his shaft, thrusting deep inside her, her bare feet dangling. Taking her upright, here, his hands groping her buttocks, as she moaned. Goddess no longer but weak flesh. Taking her like a frenzied lover would. With thoughtless haste and abandon.

And then she turned the knob on the door and shoved him, unceremoniously, outside into the alley.

Heart racing, breath short, face flushed. She needed to calm herself.

Catherine had crossed back on tiptoes to the center of the room and had put her slippers back on her feet and was looking for the steps to place next to the platform when she noted how quiet the modiste’s shop had become.

“Finalement!” Madame Beauchamp proclaimed as she swept into the room, holding the stays and chemise she had promised Catherine twenty minutes ago. She said it quite as if it had been Catherine who had kept her waiting rather than the reverse. Madame Beauchamp stopped mid-stride when she saw Catherine standing by the platform. She raised her fierce eyebrows and the corners of her mouth curved down.

Catherine stood up straighter. Yes, I moved off the platform. I am not going to be shouted at or bullied. Not by a French dressmaker. Not by anyone. I’m tired of being accommodating. I’m tired of being restful and managing everyone else’s tempers. Once upon a time, I was the one with a temper. Once upon a time, I was the one who raged. And now I may not have the youth to entice a Marquess of Daventry, but I am not going to be intimidated.

However, she was mistaken about Madame Beauchamp’s attitude. The modiste crossed to Catherine quickly, tossing the stays and chemise to the table and said, “Tournez-vous, madame, s’il vous plaît.” The “s’il vous plaît” startled Catherine so much that she did turn around completely as Madame Beauchamp requested. Madame Beauchamp clucked her tongue, ran her hand over the blue silk wrapping Catherine’s breasts, said “là, là,” and kicked the portable steps over to the platform and assisted Catherine in mounting the steps to the platform.

Madame Beauchamp drew a pencil out from her chignon and seized a thin board and a piece of paper. She began to sketch rapidly, muttering to herself as she did so, “Quasiment—how do you say—Queen Anne, but straight across the bust.” She seemed almost delighted. “Oui, parfait, a halfway turn, oui.”

“Has your other customer left?” Catherine asked.

“My other customer?” Madame Beauchamp looked up from her sketching. “Oh, non, non, there was no other customer. I only opened the shop for you today. Did you hear something, Madame?” Madame Beauchamp’s eyes narrowed and her voice was tinged with a little anxiety.

“Just some voices,” Catherine shrugged. “Someone was upset. I couldn’t really hear anything.”

Madame Beauchamp looked down at her pad and resumed sketching. “Oh, yes, the man who imports my silks came. I was angry parce-que la facture—the invoice—was wrong. Je suis vraiment désolée for any delay, Madame Lovelock.”

“Oh, I see,” Catherine said. Madame Beauchamp had something to hide, that was clear. She had never heard the woman apologize. Ever. “What a bother. Men always think they can take advantage, don’t they?”

Madame Beauchamp smirked a little at that.

And then Catherine remembered the very loud bell that hung on the shop door, the one she had heard over and over again when she had been in the shop last month. She hadn’t heard it today, not since she herself had entered the shop.

It had been silent today.

Everyone who might have come into the shop after her had come in from the back. Not like a customer would.

There had been no young mistress as she had imagined, flouncing into the shop to have James select and pay for her next dress.

She smiled.

Once Madame Beauchamp had her fill of sketching Catherine’s improvised bodice, she helped her into the new gown. And then Catherine found herself smiling again. The new dress was stunning, daring in its cut. In its color, it matched her eyes extraordinarily well. It would be ready in a week, Madame Beauchamp promised. Catherine knew that meant two weeks, but she was hopeful the dress would be ready on time.

As Madame Beauchamp expertly did up the buttons on Catherine’s own lavender dress, Catherine realized that no mistress today in the shop did not mean James did not have a mistress. Or many mistresses.

And his breath when she had leaned over on the platform. When his face had been so close to her face. His breath had been sweet. Clean. No trace of alcohol. And indeed he had not seemed drunk. He had been steady and assured, except when she had shown him her breasts.

She had never heard of James Cavendish, Marquess of Daventry, not being drunk.

And what other reason could there be for reform than the love of a woman?

Blast.