The Peculiar Pink Toes of Lady Flora Read online

  Suddenly her hands were on his face and she rose up to kiss him so gently that it seemed as if their lips melted into each other. "And that, my darling Fred," she whispered, "is the best gift you could ever have given me. That is all I needed."

  "All?" It did not seem possible to him. But she would not lie about it; he knew that much.

  There was nothing more to be said at that time, for Nicholas came in with the dog, both snow-capped and in need of refreshment after dashing about in the yard for an hour.

  * * * *

  On the fifth of January, Nicholas returned to school.

  Flora sent him off with a parcel of delights from the kitchen, as well as the promise to send him some new waistcoats of a more modern style.

  "I do not know what use my son will have for those," Maxim grumbled. "What he has now is perfectly plain and respectable. He does not require embellishment like a dandy."

  Flora merely gave Nicholas a sly wink and then stood aside to observe the parting between father and son. She was pleased to see some greater warmth in Maxim's embrace. He managed to look slightly less mortified by the young man's affection than he had been on arrival.

  "Write to me when you get to school, Nicholas, so that I know you are there safely. If there is anything you require, be sure to apprise myself or Plumm."

  "Will you still be here at Darnley, father?"

  "Yes."

  Well, she thought, that was unequivocal.

  Nicholas smiled. "Good."

  Which was a statement equally short, but certain and full of meaning.

  Once his carriage was out of sight, they went into the great hall together, both feeling the loss of his youthful spirit in that moment, the house suddenly quieter. Captain Fartleberries napped beside the fire, feet twitching— probably exhausted after the exercise regime imposed by Nicholas, who had more energy than a thousand spring rabbits. At least it had got some of the fat off the old dog's frame.

  Spying her new silk shawl where it lay over a chair, she swung it around her shoulders and gave the graceful swans a quick pat. "You have given me so many lovely, beautiful things, yet I have nothing for you," she said sadly.

  "Ah, but I have not finished yet."

  "Oh, no." Her shoulders sank. "Not more surely!"

  He looked askance. "That's a fine thing to say, madam."

  "But, Fred! It's too much, and I have nothing to give in return."

  "You have not yet had my twelfth gift."

  So she relented. He had gone to so much trouble for her. Nobody else ever had. "Twelve drummers drumming? I hope you have not—"

  He took her hand and raised it to his chest, where he held the palm pressed flat to his heart. "Can you feel them here, Flora?"

  She closed her eyes. Even through his shirt and waistcoat the hearty thump was evident and very fast.

  "I love you," he said. "I've always loved you. I just did not know it back then. I did not recognize the pain. How could I? There were no examples in my life twenty years ago."

  Naturally he had to describe it as a pain, she mused. "Well, what did you think it was? What did it feel like?"

  "I thought perhaps it was the Fairfax Disorder."

  "And what, pray tell, is that?"

  "A burning in the gullet, a chronic dyspepsia from which many of my ascendants suffered. The only relief, according to Doctor Osgood in London, is peppermint tea. I drank a plentiful amount of it after you rejected me, but the pain did not ease."

  It was both the saddest and sweetest thing anybody had ever said to her. In any of her many lives.

  "I should have taken the time to know you better," she whispered, opening her eyes to meet his steady gaze. "But we have time now, do we not? Now we are alone together? Just a man and a woman."

  She felt him swallow, but he said nothing, simply lifted her in his arms and carried her upstairs.

  It was all very dramatic, she mused happily, kicking off her shoes as they went, and even better than the way she'd always imagined it would be when she finally succumbed to love.

  * * * *

  The softness of her skin was finer and more exquisite than anything he could ever recall touching; the scent of her hair intoxicated as he breathed it in, and her gasps of pleasures played a sensual, original symphony in his ear. She enthralled each one of his senses, enriched them, bewitched them. Maxim knew he had never felt so besotted as he was with this woman. It was a weakness he should never have allowed himself, and yet it began before he was even aware of it. And once he realized the hold she had over him it was too late.

  Terrible.

  Terrible that she had done this to him.

  But he forgave her. He was in a forgiving mood. By all the saints, how could he be anything else now?

  In this moment the sky could have fallen and he would not care.

  Outside the bedchamber window all was still and white; inside the room there was color and heat— the glorious flame of her hair against his tanned skin, the cherry-stain of her lips, the gilded tips of her lashes rising like the sun's rays on an autumn morn, to show her eyes, in a dreamy state, violet with dashes of chocolate.

  He held her in his arms and made love to her as if he was just discovering that delight for the first time, and in a way it was true. He made love that afternoon with all of himself, not just one part. There were no distractions preying on his mind, no troubles. Maxim gave her his all and at last he felt complete.

  He had come home.

  * * * *

  As a girl of seventeen she had once wondered what it would be like to marry such a man as the Duke of Malgrave. Later, as she grew older and wiser, she had wondered what it would be like to lay with him. Her marriage to Sir Benjamin ought to have given her a severe distaste for the act, but fortunately he had not bothered her often in the five years of their marriage and in widowhood she had discovered the varied talents of other men. They had greatly improved her opinion on the matter. Thus her thoughts had, occasionally, wandered in Malgrave's direction with more "ripened" considerations. She had never forgotten how he made her feel when she thought he might kiss her. The memory always gave her a little shiver.

  Well, now she knew.

  Those other men were quickly lost in the shade. Of course, it was not merely what he did to her that mattered, but also the fact that she was deeply happy, that they had more between them than this and she could appreciate Maxim for much more than his skills in bed. Accomplished and exceptional as they were

  Persey had tried to tell her that men could be useful in other ways, but she'd never really been able to see how. Maxim was not just a lover, he was a companion and a confidant, a man who worked beside her, laughed with her, learned with her. Shared all with her.

  He was the first man she'd ever wanted to please and impress. Usually they were left struggling to amaze her and catch her attention, which was seldom focused for long and always looking for something else, something new and better. Afraid of missing out on another adventure.

  There was no "else" this time. Nothing could possibly be better.

  "Don't be angry with Plumm," she said, as they lay resting much later, both with a head at opposite ends of the bed, "but he told me about the divorce petition."

  He rolled onto his back, stretching and reaching for her nearest ankle. "Did he indeed? The interfering menace."

  "He is concerned for you and wants me to look after you when he cannot."

  Lifting her foot to his lips, he kissed her toes. One by one. "It will be," kiss, "a long", kiss, "and expensive business," kiss, "but Plumm," kiss, "thinks it for the best," kiss, "after all this time."

  Eager to show her knowledge of serious matters, she sat up and tried to reclaim her foot from his tickling. "You will require an act of Parliament, of course."

  "More than that." He refused to relinquish her toes and began to tickle them without mercy. "I must bring suit against her lover first and, should I be able to prove her adultery, then I must apply to the bishop for a legal s
eparation."

  She slapped him with a pillow until he finally set her toes free. "But she left you four years ago. Is that not separation enough and proof of her adultery?"

  "Not legally, I fear. After the ecclesiastical trial for separation, then I can petition for an act of Parliament." He grabbed her around the waist and they fell back to the bed together. "Without which I cannot remarry. It could take years, and the disgrace will be very public. The details of my marriage— and its failure— will be dragged out and scrutinized by every Tom, Dick and Harry." He paused. "So you see now what you're letting yourself in for, by cavorting with me, Lady Flora."

  "Naturally," with her forefinger she traced the crooked bend of his nose, "you tell me all this when it's too late and I'm in too far to escape the acquaintance, sir."

  He looked at her solemnly. "It is not too late, Flora. You are still free. I would never force you to stay. If you want to leave now—"

  She dropped the tip of her straying finger to his lips and pressed it there to shut them. "I'm not leaving you. We've wasted enough time as it is. I do not care how long it takes before we can be respectable and approved of in the eyes of the entire world. In fact, I do not care if we never are." She grinned slowly. "I might even enjoy it better this way. So I'm staying and that's all there is to it."

  His dark eyelashes lowered to half mast, trying to conceal his thoughts, but she knew the gossip bothered him, whatever he might say. He was not used to being treated as a social outcast, whereas she had spent most of her life as a rebel, never quite fitting wherever she was put. She supposed that was why Plumm considered her the best person to stand at his master's side through all this. Lady Flora was an expert at havoc. She was a survivor.

  On that day, with Maxim's arms around her and their bodies entwined at last, so much to explore and enjoy, she never once thought to tell him the truth about her past. How could she, when she had conveniently forgotten it herself and was completely immersed in another woman's life— had been so for twenty years?

  It was, as she would confess to him later, easy to tell a lie so oft that one believed it oneself.

  Yes, everybody makes mistakes and she made a very great one that evening.

  But the truth was there still, underneath it all, hibernating in her own personal "Oubliette". Every so often it stirred, to stretch and yawn. To remind her.

  What would he make of her story? What would he think of a woman who was the bastard child of a concubine? It would, doubtless, change the way he looked at her.

  He had his faults; everybody did. One of his was that superior sense of being. He could not help it; he was born that way.

  Just as she was born hers and would fight anybody seeking to change it.

  Two decades ago, when he proposed marriage, the fact that she played a masquerade as Lady Flora Chelmsworth was part of the reason why she rejected him. But the lie was still new to her then, her situation not real. A game. Now that she'd lived Flora's life for so long, it felt more real to her than the actual truth. She liked this life— her great aunt had been right about that, she mused. She liked being sister to Francis and having Persey for a friend. All things she would not have known as plain Rosie Jackanapes. And she liked having Fortitudo Maximilian Fairfax-Savoy as her lover. Rosie, the abandoned, illegitimate child of a prostitute, would never have crossed his path, except as a servant at whom he barely glanced.

  Surely there was a point when a lie had gone on too long to be confessed. When the truth would have no positive benefit in its revelation, but could only cause greater trouble.

  Maxim was no longer quite so stiff and proper, but as she had already observed in his dealings with Nicholas and other folk, he would never be a completely carefree spirit. He was still the Duke of Malgrave and would be until his death. There was no getting out of it. He would always have those onerous responsibilities and duties as the head of an estate. That part of him was locked in an unbreakable cabinet and could not be touched.

  Would it be better, therefore, simply to continue as they were, to love him as Flora and let him love her as Flora in return? The emergence of Rosie Jackanapes would only complicate matters, and they had a hard enough path ahead of them as it was. Obstacles aplenty.

  The only person bothered by the truth now was herself, whenever she allowed her mind to stray back through time. Perhaps it ought to stay that way.

  * * * *

  Maxim lay awake that first night, holding her with her head on his chest, feeling her soft sighs and snores blow over his skin, her long hair tickling his chin stubble. He had never felt so comfortable, so pleasantly exhausted in his life. Is this, he mused, what an apple felt like when it went through the cider press? He was definitely pulped, fermenting and slightly intoxicated on his own fumes. His mind was too busy for sleep.

  Ah, he should never have brought her into this. The storm of divorce would be brutal, but he had selfishly wanted her at his side, in his arms. He winced as guilt ripped through his heart. Maxim had always lived his life by rule and duty and honor.

  Now look what he did.

  But he did not want to lose her again. That was the most important thing just now. He had won her over, changed her mind about him, and now he must keep her happy. Whatever it took he must keep her in his arms, never let her down.

  And he did not want her to worry about anything.

  Overcome with emotions he could not name, torn open and left raw by his need for her, Maxim could only hold her even tighter and bend his head to kiss the top of hers.

  "I love you, Fred," she murmured sleepily. "Nothing else matters. Love is all we need."

  He grunted. "A typically feminine, irresponsible outlook."

  "Stop fussing, Fred. I shall not blame you for leading me into sin and debauchery. You forget that I invented them."

  "I am not fussing. I do not fuss. I'm a man."

  "You're worrying unduly about what you've just done to me."

  "Are you reading my mind, woman?" he murmured.

  "No," she replied, eyes still closed, lashes feathering his chest. "Your heart."

  Yes, his drummers were still drumming, hard and fast. More vigorous than ever, he realized, as he lay there feeling the beat himself, especially conscious of it tonight with the side of her warm face pressed against his bare chest.

  "It was quite ungentlemanly, however," she added, with a yawn. "What you just did to me. Not something I would expect from a peer of the realm— one who previously thought women should be exercised in moderation, because too much excitement can be perilous for their health and well-being." He felt her lips bending against his chest, laughing at him again.

  "Madam," he said firmly, "I have concluded that you are a unique case."

  "Oh?"

  "In the matter of Lady Flora it is safest to exhaust her completely." And he swiftly rolled over, pulling her beneath him as she squealed. "I've only just begun with her training."

  Chapter Twenty

  "There's things going on in this 'ouse what ain't proper."

  Grey stood before her looking very peevish, his lips screwed into a tight bitter knot that barely allowed the words out.

  Flora had been going over the accounts when he came in to demand her attention, after banging buckets and tools about with steadily increasing noise all morning. Rather than ask him what he meant by "ain't proper", she sat still and let him continue.

  "I can't stay in a house of wickedness and yon woman comes with me." He jerked his grizzled head over one shoulder to where his wife hovered unhappily under the door arch.

  "If you want to leave my employ, Grey, then you are certainly free to go." She closed her ledger with a bang. "But I would advise you to think carefully about where you will go and who will hire you. Darnley Abbey has been your home for more than forty years, has it not? You are not a young man, and you are not a very useful man to have about the place. I have kept you on— and paid you well, incidentally— because you were here when I arrived and your dear wife
is an excellent cook. Wherever you go next they might not be willing to pay you so well, or even to hire you. I fear you will find the world out there much harsher to you than it has been here at Darnley."

  "That's for me to worry about," he replied with a gelatinous sniff, chin jutting out, one hand pulling his breeches up at the waist. "I shall go to a god-fearin' house. Not stay 'ere with a married man and a wench— not his wife— living together in sin. Co'abitin'. 'Tis immoral. Havin' amorous congress all night long. Screamin' and shameless. All hours. Night and day. I never knew the like of it."

  She knew, of course, that the old man would have to say all that eventually, even if she didn't ask him directly to explain his reasons for leaving. It was bursting to come out. But where had he heard such words as "co-habiting" and the term "amorous congress"? Those were not found among Grey's usual vocabulary.

  Ah, of course. Yesterday was market day in Holsham, and he had gone there on the cart to sell Flora's cider, his wife's cakes and preserves, and eggs from the Darnley hens. Apparently gossip had not been hindered on its inevitable course by the winter weather and he must have heard all this from other folk. No doubt he'd added plenty of details from his own spying.

  Now he chose his moment to confront her, while Maxim was out chopping wood.

  "Don't want no reference from you, neither," he added. "That would do more 'arm than good, I daresay. I knew it were a mistake when you came 'ere with all your fine ideas and fancy frocks." Then he barked out at his wife, "Come on then, wench. We'll be orf."

  "Just a moment." Flora stood and walked around the table. "Martha, is it your wish to leave?"

  "'Er wish? 'Er wish?" the old man growled. "She's goes where I go."

  "I address Martha, not you."