Part 1 (2/2)

How ironic that she, Queen of the Happy Ending, was stuck somewhere in the mucky middle of a never-ending tragedy. No, that wasn't right-it was a farce.

She would ask Edward to divorce her. He had the evidence; it was only his p.r.i.c.kly, nearly-Parkerian pride that was holding them back from any sort of resolution. Then she might leave the Jane Street house and move where no one had ever heard of her or her novels.

Or she might become exactly what everyone thought her to be.

She doubted she could find a worthy man to sleep with her. Edward only seemed to do it for some sort of punishment. Whether he intended to punish himself or her, it had the same result. Caroline pulled the sheet over her face to block out the infernal suns.h.i.+ne, not at all ready to face the day or the night.

Her maid tapped timidly on the door, as she did every morning. Poor Lizzie had once been mistress of her own Jane Street house, until Lord Pope had scarred her body and scared her witless. Caroline had offered her protection, and done what she could to ensure that no other girl would fall victim to the appet.i.tes of Randolph Pope. Although she'd called him Randy p.o.o.p (quite juvenile of her, really), everyone in the ton and beyond now knew of the viscount's unnatural proclivities after they read The Vicious Viscount. He'd once had the audacity to come round to Number Seven, but Caroline had kneed him in his withered b.a.l.l.s just as her brother Nicky had taught her to do, then poked him out the front door with her best parasol from the umbrella stand. It had not been nearly enough, but it had been a satisfying start.

”Good morning, Lizzie. How are you?”

”Just fine, Lady Christie. Will you be wanting your breakfast in bed?”

Caroline didn't want to step out of bed for a week, but she supposed she could laze away the day tomorrow, doing a postmortem on Edward's performance, reliving each glorious inch of his penile perfection. It simply wasn't fair that at forty, he was more handsome than he'd ever been, the dusting of silver at his temples so distinguished, the planes of his cheeks so sharp, his chin completely resistant to doubling. She had seen him standing ramrod straight on the street quite by accident four months ago, his head bare against the winter wind, his hazel eyes keenly fastened upon a very attractive fur-clad woman with whom he was conversing. Caroline had crossed the street and hidden in a tobacco shop until he kissed the woman on the cheek and walked away. She'd had to buy a box of Spanish cigars for her publisher to kill the time.

But what if there was no penile perfection to savor? Caroline had gained at least a stone this year, worrying over Lizzie, writing six books, untangling her girls from unwise entanglements, stewing in Surrey with her sister and her family. It was probable that Edward would not find her at all attractive, or even kiss her on the cheek.

h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation. She was crying over milk that hadn't even had a chance to spill yet. And anyway, she wanted a divorce. It wouldn't do to keep sleeping with a man who despised her and broke her heart every June 14.

”I'm up, I'm up,” Caroline muttered. ”Tell Mrs. Hazlett I'll be downstairs in an hour. Poached eggs, please. Toast, but no b.u.t.ter or jam.”

Lizzie lifted a blond eyebrow. Her face was as fair as ever; Pope had at least spared her that.

”Oh, very well. Jam. And b.u.t.ter. But no bacon. And kippers are out of the question. I mean it.”

Lizzie curtsied, grinning just a bit at her victory. ”Very well, my lady. I'll bring up your was.h.i.+ng water in a trice.”

”Don't hurry. You know I'm working on my special project.” Caroline stretched and reached for an old but exquisite Chinese robe embroidered with giant red poppies. Edward had hated it. It did not match her plain white muslin night rail, but she considered it her writing uniform. For the next forty-five minutes she sat at her desk and poured ink on the pages of the notebook she currently called Pride and Artifice. No doubt her publisher would want to change the t.i.tle, but she thought it very clever, if a bit derivative. The hero, a widower with three children and an enormous sense of self-consequence, was soon to meet a shallow red-headed vixen who would change his life forever in one turn around a ballroom.

When she was done, she washed the ink off her fingers and face and went downstairs to eat. The rest of the morning was spent revising The Harlot's Husband, as her publisher wanted her to be more explicit. Caroline wasn't sure she could use all the naughty words he suggested, but she'd try.

After a light luncheon that she was too nervous to eat, she spent approximately four hours in a bathtub, scrubbing every nook and cranny, calling on Lizzie for more hot water and lotions to turn her into temptation incarnate. Her husband, that vexing man with an enormous sense of self-consequence, was coming for dinner.

Chapter 2.

Camilla gazed up at the rigging, where the terrifyingly tall pirate blocked the scorching sun. ”Drop to your death,” she whispered. ”May the winds blow and your brains be battered across the deck.”

-The Captain's Concubine.

At first it had been for the s.e.x and the anger, but for the last two years, Edward had arrived early enough for dinner. Caroline, for all her hoydenish ways, was a creature of habit. She always dined at eight if she was at home. Judging from the blaze of lights at Seven Jane Street as daylight was hours from waning, she was home. Candles were costly, but since Caroline had become a writing sensation, she spent her money without economization. Her money, not his. As he had told Dougla.s.s and Pope, she was nearly self-sufficient. Edward imagined it suited her pride to be as independent from him as possible, not having to beg for pin money. As far as he knew, she didn't gamble or entertain lavishly, unless one counted her weekly teas with the other residents on the street.

He had meant to punish her by setting her up on Jane Street-but how like Caroline to turn the punishment into pleasure, consorting with courtesans like some sort of fairy G.o.dmother. He should have known she would find a way to thwart him. She always did.

He pa.s.sed muster with the two night security guards at the mouth of the little cul-de-sac, hired by the eleven men and one woman who owned the dozen houses to keep out gawkers and undesirables. Not that Caroline owned her house outright, but it was she who tended to the particulars of Jane Street residency. She was the queen of her little lane, and her female subjects adored her. Some of the gentlemen, as evinced by Pope and Dougla.s.s, were probably less enthusiastic.

There had been some trouble recently, and the guard duty had been doubled at the elaborate iron gate. Edward had stood in irritation as the two men poured over a list, finally satisfying themselves that Edward Christie was an approved, if rare, visitor.

Before his fist hit the door, Caroline's butler Hazlett opened it. Her staff was small, suitable for the little jewel box of a house: Hazlett, his wife who was the cook/housekeeper, an orphaned kitchen boy, and the poor maid whom Pope had beaten so savagely. Edward knew it only because he bribed Hazlett an enormous amount to keep him informed of Caroline's activities. His dustup with Pope that afternoon worried him, and he would be sure to warn Hazlett when he took his leave.

”Good evening, Lord Christie. You're expected.” Hazlett took Edward's gloves and placed them carefully on the waxed credenza in the tiled hall. Edward hadn't worn a hat in years, no matter the weather, and the butler looked at his bare head with some disapproval. For a man who was employed on the most sinful street in London, Hazlett was an amusingly high stickler.

Edward glanced into the empty drawing room and dining room beyond. The table was as bare as his head.

”Lady Christie asked that dinner be served in the upstairs parlor. She is waiting for you there.”

Good. Closer to her bedroom. Edward had been hard as marble since he left his town house and walked the few long blocks to Jane Street. He hadn't had a woman since his last visit to Caroline. Ridiculous, but true. He had to set an example for his boys, so he'd not broken his marriage vows. Yet. He'd been tempted once or twice, but something had always come up. Or gone down. His hand and his imagination had served him adequately for the past five years, but he did feel he was wasting what few good years he had left to him. Perhaps that issue would be settled tonight.

He might not ever marry again, but at least if he was free he could find some comfort in the arms of a willing widow if he could ever not see Caroline behind his eyelids, her riot of red hair teasing his nipples as she moved over him, her lush hips rising up on his c.o.c.k as she cried out- He lost his balance on the stairs and nearly took a tumble. Aye, he could break his neck fantasizing about that little witch. If only he'd stayed home with his account books and not gone to Lady Huntington's ball six years ago, he wouldn't have a year-long case of blue b.a.l.l.s. How he was to sit through dinner he had no idea.

Caroline sat on a plum velvet sofa. She'd redecorated the room since he was last there, and seemed to be dressed to match it. She wore the amethyst set he had given her, and a pale filmy lilac-gray gown that barely covered her nipples. Her hair was half up and half down, as though she couldn't quite decide whether to look like a queen or a school girl. His mouth dried and his c.o.c.k betrayed him with a ferocious twitch. She was exquisite. She was perfect. She was Caroline.

”You're looking well,” he said blandly.

”As are you, Edward. Do sit. May I get you some champagne?”

Her voice was low, all honey and s.e.x. One could come to crisis simply listening to her read newspaper advertis.e.m.e.nts in The London List: Wanted, one man to muck out stalls. Serious inquiries only. s.e.m.e.n would be everywhere.

”Yes, thank you. That would be pleasant.”

He watched her float off the sofa; there was no other word for it. She moved to a table topped with a silver ice bucket and flutes, expertly popped the cork, and poured two fizzy gla.s.ses. Leaning over him, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s nearly spilling out of the gauzy bodice, she pressed a gla.s.s into his sweaty hand. ”To us.”

He wanted to bury his face between the fragrant crease of pearl-white bosom. Instead, he raised his gla.s.s, and looked at her. ”To us. Tonight.”

Caroline smiled without showing her teeth. ”Ever a caveat. How have you been keeping, Edward? How are the children?”

”Ned's at university, drinking and wenching and presumably learning something, although I can't see what. Since he's been home, he's shown no apt.i.tude for anything but courting trouble. Jack's off to join him at Cambridge in the fall and is bound to be just as bad. Little Alice is-well, she's not little. She's thirteen and nearly as tall as Jack. I confess I don't know what's to be done with her.” h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation. What had come over him? He had not planned on blurting out his problems, one after the other with barely a pause for breath, and was appalled at himself for doing so. Caroline's lips were pursed in concern, and he knew he was about to get a lecture on child rearing from the most inexpert expert imaginable.

”Poor thing! I hope you don't criticize-Allie can't help it that she takes after you. I'm sure she'll grow into her looks and be a stunner. She's at such an awkward age, and to be singled out-”

Edward set his gla.s.s down in annoyance, mostly at himself for opening up this can of worms. It wasn't as if his wife could be of any practical help to him. ”Give me some credit, Caro. Beth and I praise her at every turn. She has dancing lessons. Riding lessons. Music. Art. She's execrable at everything but we'd never say.”

”But she knows anyway. Do-do you think she'd be happier away at school?”

”She won't go.” Why on earth were they having this conversation? It was not at all to the point. ”I'm not here to discuss my children with you, Caroline.”

”I know,” she said quietly, the spark of sympathy gone out of her silver eyes. ”You're here to f.u.c.k me. Shall we have dinner first or get right to it?”

”Don't be so vulgar. Those filthy books you write have gone to your head.” h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation. She put his back up and made him sound like a perfect prig-which, at the heart of it, he was.

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