To Tame a Rogue (13 page)

And the way he talked…coxcombical…he screwed his mouth up and drawled forth his words and walked as if he had swallowed the kitchen poker. Oh, stuff and bother. It didn't matter now. Josephine wouldn't waste any more time bellyaching. She had news of such a nature she felt she would burst with joy. She was very close to finding the granddaughter she hadn't known she'd had until recently.

It brought tears to her eyes to know that a part of her dear daughter had survived. "I am going to find her and when I do, I’m going to make up for the all the terrible mistakes I made with her mother," she said out loud.
I am going to make sure she knows that she has choices.

Josephine’s heart ached with another kind of self-acquired but much ignored knowledge she could only write in a letter to Caroline.

She wished she'd spent her life with a man who was affectionate, a man who loved her down to the silly shape of her toes. A man whose eyes would reflect love and admiration when he looked at her and whose touch would be gentle and reverent and frequent, even as she aged. Perhaps a silly wish for a woman of her age,
she thought.

The carriage came to an abrupt stop in front of the offices of Smith, Thiesen & Warner. The trio of detectives was among the best the city had to offer, and money was no object when Josephine had made up her mind about something. For the first time in her life, she was
glad
Orvin had been a miserable miser. Perhaps now she could finally put his money to good use.

 
She adjusted her elegant
capotte
, made of white crepe and satin and trimmed with fetching artificial flowers, and started on the first truly exciting adventure of her life in a very long time. She walked through the front door of the offices and felt a small thrill of hope.

26

The glass of wine Josephine had had after dinner went down so smoothly that she’d had another. And another. Feeling quite relaxed now, and slightly not herself, she decided she must speak with Henree. Surely she had something important to speak to him about. She couldn’t quite remember what it was at the moment, but that didn’t matter.

She trudged off to his apartments, which had always been separate from those of the other servants due to his elevated stature in the household, and felt the cool sting of wind against her cheeks. It felt good, as for some reason, she was overly warm.

She teetered down the path laced by the lavish gardens she’d recently had redone at great expense, and giggled. The moon was a slice of naked silver dangling in the sky like a jeweled bob in someone’s ear. She was feeling quite the loon and didn’t care.

She knocked on Henree’s door and waited. No answer. Impatiently tapping her foot, which she was shocked to realize was bare, she raised her hand to knock again. The door swung open at precisely that moment and she fell inside, into a pair of strong arms, and for that matter, the bare, solid chest of the man. Giggling nervously, she righted herself and smoothed her hair behind her ears, which, Dear God, was also unbound.

Josephine couldn’t seem to stare at anything but that broad muscular expanse of chest before her as Henree removed a pair of strange gloves from his hands. Boxing gloves. Slowly, she comprehended that the man had been boxing. His taut chest, sprinkled with a coarse, springy mat of dark and silver hair, glistened with sweat.

Well, the boxing explained why he was in such impressive physical shape. Josephine felt her cheeks flame and giggled again.

“Why Henree,” she said, hiccupping, “I never knew you were a boxer.”

She thought she saw a corner of his mouth lift slightly in amusement. He retrieved a shirt hanging from a peg on the wall and slipped it on, buttoning it. “My father was a pugilist,” he said. “A very good one, in fact. Those are his gloves, actually. He had quite a bit of bottom.”

Josephine crinkled her fine features in confusion. Henree was swaying just the tiniest bit. “He had a big bottom?” she asked. “And I say, do you have to move about so much? You’re making me dizzy.”

Henree laughed, a rich, delicious sound to Josephine’s ears.

“Bottom means ‘courage,’ my dear. And I don’t think it’s me that’s swaying. Are you…
flummoxed
?”

“I had a bit of wine after dinner, quite fine wine really, but I’m certainly not…I say, can I try that?”

"What,
boxing
?” Henree asked.

“Why not? It looks like it would be good for the…aggressions.”

Silently, he handed her the gloves and helped her slip them on. They were outrageously big on her fists, of course.

“Now, place your feet apart, a little bit.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and Josephine felt a delightful shiver of warmth. He stepped back. “Now hit me.”

“Hit…you? Couldn’t I just swing at the air or something?”

“Well, there’s a lot of that in
unskilled
prize fights but that really isn’t the point, my dear.”

Josephine hiccupped again. “That’s the second time you called me ‘my dear.’”

Henree’s cheeks colored slightly. “I’m sorry. It was inappropriate.”

“Oh stuff and bother. I rather liked it.”

“I….” At a loss for words, he said quickly, “You’d better hit me. Let’s see if
you
have any bottom, my dear.”

Wobbling, she took a step forward and swung. Completely missing him, of course, and toppling into his arms. Eyes locked. Breathing slowed. Pulses raced. Very, very gently, he placed a finger beneath her chin, caressing her cheek. They both tried to speak at the same time and laughed.

“Do you know what it’s like to live with a man who doesn’t desire you in the least, for twenty years?” she whispered. “To long for some small measure of affection before your heart truly dies from disillusion and loneliness and all your dreams die away too?”

She was studying the man’s lips now and couldn’t seem to take her eyes from them. They were so close to hers.

“Do you know what it’s like to love someone from afar, for twenty years, knowing you can never have her for yourself?” he replied.

Abruptly, she stepped back from him as if she’d been sloshed with cold water. “I’ve been such a fool. I’m so sorry….”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, raking a hand through his dark hair, which was sprinkled, in the most masculine of ways, with silver along his temples.

“I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have been so selfish. I’ve kept you in my employ, when quite clearly you’ve been in love with someone far away….

"Perhaps if I'd seen past my own unhappiness, considered someone else once in a while, I could’ve freed you from my employ, from the drudgery of serving me, so you could…so you could have gone to her and married her, and had a family of your own, and….”

“Madame, you don’t understand….”

“Oh no, I see it all clearly now Henree. I am the veriest of fools. I must go now. Please, if you don’t want to…stay on, I will understand. You must hate me for being so selfish, for making you cater to my needs all these years when I never, even once, considered yours.”

She was crying now.

“But that’s not it at all!”

“You don’t need to be polite, Henree. If you decide…to leave in the morning, I’ll understand. I’ll pay you handsomely for all your years of service and then some. Oh dear,” she muttered, flying out of his apartments in a whirlwind of white silk pajamas.

Henree rubbed his neck with his hand. The woman was blind. Incredibly, stupidly blind as to what he’d just confessed to her. Perhaps in the morning, after her head cleared, she’d dismiss him. He opened the door and watched discreetly as she wobbled down the path in her bare feet until she disappeared into the house. She had very cute toes. Then he strapped on the gloves again. He felt dangerously close to crawling into some tavern and instigating a brawl. Dangerously, deliciously close.

27

It had been another wasted day. After walking in the gardens, again, she made her way to her bedchamber. It was growing toward dusk and Camille really wanted to talk with Nicholas. She was growing impatient for his return.

He’d been away now for nearly a week. She needed something to do, needed to find some way to be useful in his home. She couldn’t go on sleeping late every morning, wandering round the gardens, doing nothing. It wasn’t in her nature to be so idle. The truth was she was used to serving people, used to tasks.

As she wearily climbed the steps, she thought of how to approach him. She hated to ask him for anything, but she just couldn’t go on like this. She would change for dinner and hope that he would arrive home. Afterward, she would talk with him. If he wasn’t home for dinner, she would wait up for him again. It was that simple.

There was no need to fear him. Why was she so distraught about facing him, about asking him for something to keep her busy during the long, hot days?

She hesitated a moment before his bedroom door. It was closed. She could have sworn she had left it open this morning. Was he home? Should she knock? No, this was the only way to her bedroom and he had made it so. Without knocking, she pushed it open and was stunned by the sight that greeted her.

“Oh my dear, you must be lost. This is Nicholas’ room, you know, the master of the house, the master of the boudoire, if you know what I mean?”

The woman lying in his bed in a filmy lavender night gown that left nothing to the imagination was beautiful.
The woman he'd danced with three times at the ball.
Her glossy black hair was unbound and fell wildly about her shoulders; her skin was near porcelain, her eyes the perfect mixture of blue and green and thickly lashed.

She pouted. “I am disappointed. I was hoping it would be Nicholas coming through that door.” She ran a finger over the wine-colored silk eiderdown, her full lips in a pout.

Camille quickly composed herself. She felt drab next to the woman. She'd chosen to wear her own skirt and blouse and due to the humidity, a few riotous curls had escaped the braid hanging down the middle of her back.

Camille knew this woman was Nicholas’ mistress—with her full, lush body and lack of shame she was the complete opposite of Camille. The anger and humiliation she felt was a shock; but years of working in a tavern with all kinds of inebriated and lecherous people had made her adept at controlling her emotions.

Quietly, she shut the door behind her so the servants would not hear the exchange that was about to take place.

“I demand that you leave his bedchamber at once.” She crossed her arms over her chest and waited, tapping her foot.

What little color there was in the woman’s pale skin drained away. She sat up but made no effort to cover herself. "This is rich. A tavern wench telling me to leave her new husband's bed. And what if I don't?"

Camille took a few steps toward her and the woman shrunk back into the covers. "You won't like the consequences."

The woman slithered out of the bed.

“Let’s get something straight," Camille said. "I don’t care if you’re my husband’s mistress. In fact, I don’t care who you are or what you do when you’re together.” Neither woman heard the door open; they were so focused on each other. “I don’t care if you continue to meet with him in private. It doesn’t matter to me. But you will not do it
here
.”

“I see you’ve met Lavinia.” Both women turned at the sound of the male voice.

Camille raised her eyes to Nicholas’. She couldn’t read what was in them. Displeasure? Doubt? Here she was, the unwanted wife tossing his mistress out on her ass.

“Oh Nicholas, it’s so good to see you,” Lavinia purred. “This insolent woman, your wife, was just telling me to get out. I can’t believe it…a man like you with
her
….” She pouted. "Wasn't I good enough in bed?"

He put his hand up, not bothering to look at her. “Lavinia, get dressed and go downstairs. I’ll be down shortly.”

“But Nicholas….” He spared her a glance but said nothing more. She threw a robe on, gathered her things and strode angrily from the room, not caring who saw her in such a state of dress.

Nicholas was wearing a white lawn shirt, riding breeches, and boots. His boots and breeches were spattered with mud.

Camille turned to go but he reached out and grabbed her arm. “Not so fast, my dear. I’d like an explanation.”

“
You
want an explanation?
I’m
the one who stumbled on your mistress, in our…your bed. I may be undesirable to you, Mr. Branton, but I am legally your wife and I won’t be humiliated this way. We had an agreement.”

His lips curled slightly at the edges, as if he found the whole situation amusing.

“You think this is funny? You forbid me to work in a tavern, yet you would break
your
word and flaunt your mistress beneath my nose? Everybody knows she’s here. That helps create the image of the happily married couple, now doesn't it?”