Wickedly Ever After

  “The answer to your problem, Lady Willett, does not lie under the coverlet, but over it.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Clearly, this man has not come to recognize your value. He needs to come to know you better, and you him. Not within the confines of the matrimonial bedchamber, but over the dinner table and across the study desk.”

  Dismay shifted to puzzlement. “Study desk? But Mr. Marshall, surely you must be mistaken. It is my understanding that gentlemen do not want their wives involved in their business affairs. Countess Cavendish’s book forbids us to even inquire about our husbands’ ventures.”

  “You are a member of his family. I don’t see why you shouldn’t take an interest in your husband’s vocation. Like him, you are an investor, so there is your common ground. You can share your expertise with one another.”

  Hester shook her head. “A wife is not supposed to speak of worldly concerns. It is decidedly unladylike.”

  “According to whom?”

  “Countess Cavendish’s book admonishes that if we wish to preserve the connubial affections of our spouses, we must never trespass upon his province, such as in matters of business. We must confine ourselves to that province befitting our sex, namely, to cheer the mind of our husbands, upon whom graver matters depend.”

  He pursed his lips. “With apologies to Countess Cavendish, I suggest you toss her book out of the window, along with any other notions of prudery and disdain. It is your life, your family, your happiness at stake. You are an intelligent and wise woman, and you mustn’t hide these qualities from him, in spite of what is considered proper. You must learn to see each other as you are, warts and all. That is the key to true intimacy.”

  Hester breathed in her tears. “I shall try that. Thank you, Mr. Marshall. For your wisdom. And for your compassion.”

  Marshall reached into his sleeve and handed her a kerchief. “I have no experience of marriage, but I hope that when I do wed, it is to a woman just like you, my lady.”

  “It’s so good to have a friend I can confide in. Please . . . call me Hester.”

  It was a disappointing outing. The students had been uninspired by the paintings at the new Sebastiano Ricci exhibit, and Athena could not get them to appreciate the majesty of the artwork, let alone the brilliance of the artist’s technique. Like tethered horses, they were champing at the bit to go shopping at the market, where the stalls were packed with colorful wares. Then the rains came, stranding them all inside the museum.

  When the rains abated, they begged Athena to let them go home. By that time, Athena herself had lost her enthusiasm for the museum, and they started back to the school. With their slippers wet and their hems muddied, the ladies complained all the way down Holborn Street, and Athena swore she would never have children if they behaved even half as irritatingly as these women.

  They arrived just as another downpour assaulted them. The women stampeded through the doorway, pushing each other to escape the frigid rain. They thrust their decorative but useless parasols onto poor Gert, and stomped up the stairs to change out of their wet clothes.

  Athena asked Gert to start a fire in her bedroom and send up some hot tea. As far as she was concerned, she would not lavish any more of her artistic expertise on the students this term. It was beyond her comprehension how a person could be in the same room as a masterpiece and not recognize its intrinsic value. Their behavior today confirmed her supposition: the wealthier the family, the less appreciation they had for art. They derived no enjoyment from the mastery of the art, only from the collection of it.

  In preparation for this outing, she had read a book on Ricci, and although the women found the events of his life uninteresting, Athena developed a greater understanding of how his joys and tragedies had inspired his work. She decided to retire to her room with the book for the rest of the afternoon, and went to her sitting room to retrieve it.

  She opened the door, and the vision inside stopped her dead in her tracks. Hester and Marshall were sitting on the settee. They were smiling at each other. And he was holding her hand.

  A familiar pain stabbed at Athena’s heart, one she had determined to forget. It rose from a forgotten chamber of her heart and threatened to choke the life out of her all over again.

  “Athena!” smiled Hester. “You’re back early.”

  “A wee bit too early by the look of things.”

  “Look who’s paid us a visit—Mr. Marshall.”

  “Us?” she repeated with not a little asperity, one eyebrow cocked in his direction.

  “Miss McAllister,” he said, rising. “I see I was not the only victim of the rain.”

  “Athena, you’re drenched. Come sit by the fire,” said Hester, tapping the spot vacated by Marshall.

  “I think not. I am sufficiently warm as it is.”

  “Is something wrong, Miss McAllister?”

  Athena glared at him. He looked ever so regal in a royal blue coat with silver buttons down the front. Just like Calvin, unbearably handsome—and unspeakably traitorous.

  “I shan’t tarry. I just came to get my book. Carry on, do. Just try not to make too much noise as you two make love. The ladies are upstairs.”

  “Athena!” Hester exclaimed, her eyes bulging. “What are you thinking?”

  “Only of you, dear Hester. It would not do for the house matron to be caught in flagrante delicto with a man off the street.”

  Marshall’s voice deepened masterfully. “Miss McAllister, you are mistaken. Hester and I were only conversing.”

  Athena crossed her arms in front of her. “It’s ‘Hester,’ now, is it? I see you two have already shed the formalities. Good thing I came when I did. You might have started shedding your clothes.”

  He took a step toward her. “Miss McAllister, you exceed your own standard of rudeness.”

  Hester put a hand to her reddened face. “Athena, for heaven’s sake! How could you think such a thing of me?”

  Athena felt a pang of remorse, but she had already whipped herself into a jealous froth. “How could I? Come now, Hester. You’ve had calf’s eyes for this lout since you met him. I’m surprised it took you this long.”

  The tears Hester had been fighting overpowered her. She ran out of the room, weeping bitterly.

  Marshall pinned his fists to his hips. “Why you devilish cat! That was a cruel thing to say and a completely unfounded accusation to make.”

  She turned her chin up at him. “Names like that won’t hurt my feelings.”

  “It’s not your feelings I’m thinking of hurting. You ought to know your own friend is incapable of such wanton behavior.”

  “Yes, I know Hester. You, however, I don’t. Nor do I care to. Be off with you.”

  His chin jutted forward in offended pride. “I’m no servant to be dismissed like that.”

  “I don’t care if you’re the Prince of Wales. In this place, you’re nothing more than the hired help.”

  He strode up to her and planted himself right in her way. “I have endured your magisterial snubbings as long as I care to. You strut around here acting like the lady of the manor, presuming to be better than me even though it is clear how provincial you actually are. I’ve been perforated by your prickly demeanor, persuading myself to find it charming. But no longer. Not while you use that sharp tongue of yours to injure someone as noble and beautiful as Lady Willett. You are nothing but a rude and insolent brat, and I’m this close to putting you over my knee. One more nasty remark, and the next thing you utter will be cries of pain.”

  His eyes flamed like the blue center of an incandescent fire. His fists pumped open and closed, itching to seize her. His whole demeanor practically dared her to be impertinent.

  Athena didn’t move an inch, meeting his resolute stare. There were a hundred angry thoughts burning inside her. But she soon became aware that her chest, rising and falling in heightened temper, was fanning a painful flame in her heart. Though she scoured every corner of her mind for a scathing rejoinder, h
er anger began to fade and she was left with deep regret. She was a fool for being jealous over someone she had no claim to, and she shamed both herself and her friend.

  Though her stance was brazen and her expression resolute, she felt her eyes mist against her will. Before he could see her emotion, she turned away. “Very well. Please go now.”

  Behind her, his solid presence moved not at all.

  “I asked you nicely.” She held her breath, suffocating a sob.

  Still he didn’t move.

  “Athena . . .”

  Never had she thought her name could be spoken in so tender a fashion. The desire to have a man speak to her like that, paired with the heartache of its frustrated hope, became too much for her to bear in secret. A sob escaped her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She could not—would not—show this man her weakness. She would rather take his anger than his pity. “Are you deaf? I said be off with you, you cloth-eared, dim-witted pillock!”

  He moved, but not in the direction she’d hoped. He advanced upon her from behind, and she braced herself. But instead of seizing her, his hand cupped her elbow. “Why do you cry?”

  Her chest caved. Yes, she cried. She cried all the time when no one was looking. She cried for all she lacked and all she would never have because of it. She cried for a love lost and trust betrayed. Even now, the scarred memory of Calvin’s betrayal bled all over again.

  “Go away,” she whispered, the loudest she could speak.

  “Come here.” He clasped her elbow and turned her around. Her head hung between her shoulders, her arms crossed in front of her. He cocooned his arms around her body, and she disappeared in his embrace.

  “Did I frighten you? Is that it?”

  She shook her head. She could not hold back the tears.

  “Pity. I might have known you’d be too stubborn to be intimidated.” His voice softened. “What are all those tears for?”

  If she answered that question, she’d lose all his respect. She’d cease being his stern employer, and she’d become a soft-willed, sensitive woman. All the things she’d sworn never to be around a man.

  “It is nothing. Truly.”

  “Come along, you can tell me.”

  She shook her head. But his arms were strong around her, his chest was warm and comfortable, and his voice was gentle and compassionate. He offered reassurance, and she needed it desperately.

  His breath fell on the top of her head. “I promise not to laugh. Too hard.”

  She chuckled in spite of her misery, but her words were punctuated with emotion. “I’m sorry I . . . behaved so foolishly. I was touched . . . by the way you . . . defended Hester. I just wished that . . . someone had done so for me . . . a long time ago.”

  “Against whom?”

  “No one. That is, no one of consequence. Not anymore.”

  “What did he do to you?”

  “He told me he loved me. And I stupidly believed him. It was all my fault. I should have known better than to fall for a beautiful man. I wish I’d never laid eyes on him.”

  “Another woman?”

  She nodded, humiliated. “On the very day he proposed marriage to me.”

  He inhaled sharply. “The fact that he didn’t love you as you deserve mustn’t force you into hiding from all men. One man’s ill-treatment mustn’t lock away all that beauty.”

  She pushed away from him and darted to the rain-spattered window. “Beauty . . . that’s a laugh. If I had been beautiful he might not have left me for another. I’m no matrimonial prize. I’m not English. I’ve not got youth, or innocence, or much of a dowry. I’m not even delightful company. To have a man as beautiful and wealthy and highly placed as Calvin Bretherton offer for me was more than I could have hoped for. But how could he resist her greater charms? She knew how to please him with her body, whereas I—I knew how to curtsy.” She gasped wetly and wiped her eyes with her hands. “I don’t know who I hate more . . . him for deceiving me, or me for needing him in spite of it. Being rejected hurts more than never being chosen at all.”

  His hands caressed her back tenderly. “Now you make sense to me. All the barbs you wear so as never to be chosen again. Athena . . .”

  Her name sounded so different on his lips than on Calvin’s. She turned around.

  “Athena, you don’t have to emulate women you don’t admire because they have what you desire. A man is drawn to a woman who knows her own mind, who has the courage to follow her own heart, regardless of where it leads her. Women of loose morals are ten a penny, and they dwell in the darkness of their own choices. But a woman who prizes her dignity has a phosphorescence about her that draws the right sort of man to her like a moth. No matter how pretty the other woman may be, her beauty pales in comparison to the one lit from within.”

  His words were well intentioned, but Athena knew they weren’t true of her.

  He grasped her hands. “Do you know who the mythological Athena was?”

  “Of course,” she replied, her head downturned. “She was the Greek goddess of reason and logic.”

  He nodded. “She was also the goddess of war. And she never married . . . a virgin goddess. How like your namesake you are.”

  “You’re all warmth, aren’t you? Is that intended to flatter me?”

  He grinned benevolently. “No. It’s intended to illuminate you. Athena was a woman of whom power and wisdom were hallmarks. She is described as the mother of art. She—how does that line from Homer go?—‘she teaches tender maidens in the house and puts knowledge of goodly arts in each one’s mind.’ She is chaste, fearless, and fair. And she never married because no man, god or no, was her equal.”

  Athena considered the similarities. And though she had tried to convince herself that she did not need a man in her life, the truth was too great to keep hiding. “I don’t want to be like her. I don’t want to be unmarried. I don’t want to be alone.”

  “You don’t have to be. Come here.” He pulled her toward him. His touch was a powerful lure, and she let him wrap her in his embrace.

  As she hugged his chest, the self-pitying thoughts began to vanish. Now, she was conscious only of the feel of his hard body, the warmth of his torso, the sensation of his muscled arms on either side of her. The trace of lime-scented toilet water through her stuffy nose.

  He rested his chin on top of her damp chignon. “My little stripling goddess. Maybe if you had shot a few of your arrows into him, he might have seen you as I do.”

  The sound of his speech through his dense chest gave her more pleasure than the words he spoke. The bitterness that had encased her began to rust, and she started to feel an overwhelming sense of freedom—and warmth.

  Above her, his head shifted. One arm slid from her back, and the next thing she felt were his fingertips gently lifting her chin. She didn’t want to face him lest her expression show how much she liked—needed—this embrace. Her eyes closed against the nakedness, but he waited. When she finally did look at him, she was amazed. It was printed on his face too.

  His head lowered, and their lips met. His mouth was soft and tender, giving more than it took. This . . . this was what she had craved—a kiss that branded her a woman worth loving. It felt as if he were shining sunlight onto her wilted heart, and she began to blossom in return.

  Wantonly, her hands came astride his face, begging for more. He responded by grasping her waist and flattening her body against his. As his mouth feasted on her neck and shoulders, his large hands slithered down to her bottom and lifted her toward him. A yearning came into full bloom inside her. Desire burst forth from her, and it threatened to engulf him completely. He was oblivious to the danger, foolishly feeding her want with his wayward hands and lips.

  Her whole body blazed to life at once. She threaded her fingers into his golden hair, balling it into her fists. Her aggression spurred his own, and his right hand wound around to the front of her dress and swallowed her breast. Her lips fell open in a wanton gasp, and she arched he
r back to receive him. His hungry mouth descended onto her dress, closing over her breast right through the fabric.

  She gloried in the sensation from his mouth, infusing her whole body with heat. Her eyes closed to hold in the pleasure. To her dismay, his mouth departed, and she waited anxiously for it to land somewhere else. But there was no more.

  Reluctantly, she opened her eyes. Through the haze of lust, she became aware of his self-recriminating expression.

  “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

  He shook his head, forcing himself to dispel his pleasure. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what? Don’t stop, please.”

  “I mustn’t.” His hands, which just a moment ago had pulled her hips to his body, now pushed them away.

  “But . . . but . . .” She didn’t know what to say or how to say it.

  “Please forgive me. It got too far. I . . .” He stood up, though her body was still pressed against him. “I must go.” He placed a brief kiss on her lips, and pushed past her.

  She stood in mute bafflement, unmet need still swirling in her body, watching as he closed the door behind him.

  THIRTEEN

  “Thank heavens you’re home,” Aquilla Hawkesworth called down from behind the second-floor balustrade.

  Marshall handed his hat and cloak to the butler. “What is it, Mother?”

  Aquilla began the long descent down the curved staircase. Although nearly sixty, she was a woman who radiated elegance and decorum. The train on her dress swept the steps behind her. “A man was just here. He wanted to speak with Justine.”

  “With Justine? Who was he?”

  “He said his name was Nance. Awful, common person. He said he was a journalist with the Town Crier. I told you this would happen. That man you chose to be her fiancé will plunge this whole family into a scandal.”