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Haughley’s athletic steps ceased, and he turned to William with unhidden shock—and relish. After examining William’s face, he nodded. “Leave that to me. Join me in my theater box tonight, where a few of us gather for our dose of medicinals, eh? Say, what sort of mare do you seek to ride? For you, I have two special possibilities in mind. Do you prefer a bay or a palomino?”
William didn’t hide his disgust, and he nearly told him it didn’t matter. But then he imagined facing a brunette who wasn’t his wife, and he knew if he were to continue down this path, he couldn’t do so thinking of Bea every minute. “Make her blonde.”
“Verywell chosen, Candleton. Very well, indeed. The English Rose it shall be. You have no idea of your fortune. Speaking of which, bring a heavy purse.”
∞∞∞
William finished another goblet of claret, studiously avoiding any crushing of the crystal this time, whatever his angst. His company in the velvet-adorned theater box hadn’t shied from drink either, though the other three men had since placed their attentions elsewhere—and not on the pitiful performance masquerading as theater several stories below on the stage.
Sighing inwardly, he realized yet again the influence Bea had exerted on him without him appreciating it in full. He would have said he knew little of the arts, but the years of accompanying her and learning from her had taught him more than he had realized. Of course,thistheater was little more than an excuse to whittle away one’s time and serve as a venue to meet courtesans. Except for him, apparently.
The English Rose was late.
A sign?He was, after all, already riddled with doubts about this damnable plan.
Earlier this afternoon, after returning from thesalle d’armes, he’d sought out Bea, certain that seeing her would prevent him from acting so dastardly. He found her taking tea with Miriam. At nearly ten, their daughter, who looked so much like Bea, wore a gown similar to her mother. The two of them sat in a patch of angelic afternoon light, practicing French and giggling.
That moment had only served to harden his resolve to find an outlet for his loins. Bea was an ideal mother, the one he had never had. He wasn’t so daft and self-serving as to convince himself he was taking a mistress for his children’s sake, no; but he knew a measure of righteous justification. A mistress wasn’t retribution. It was insurance against allowing his passions to accumulate and place Bea at risk.
Or so he told himself, hoping it would make the sick feeling in his stomach go away.
He poured himself more wine. Perhaps it would douse the flames in his gut. Resolving to finish this goblet and leave, he stared sightlessly at the stage below.
With only a few tapers in wall sconces, the box was dimly lit. When the English Rose arrived, William saw immediately she was someone who brought her own light, such was her beauty. No one else in the box reacted to the new arrival—Haughley’s face was buried in his ladybird’s bosom—but William stood.
The Viscount could not have selected a more appealing choice for William. The woman who stepped into the box possessed such a refined air that she could have made herself at home in the Candleton opera box. At that thought—imagining this prostitute next to Bea and Clara—William cringed inwardly at his absurd thinking.
He indicated the empty chair next to his. “Good evening to you, madam.”
“Good evening, my lord,” she replied in cultured tones and took her seat.
I don’t want to do this, he realized, pretending to watch the play. Yet what was he to do? Return home where he wasn’t wanted? Retire to his room and try to milk himself again, all the while conjuring sordid images of Bea?
The Viscount was kissing his companion with abandon. The Baron on the other side of the box had his hand up his courtesan’s skirts. The fourth man present was also a baron, and his ladybird was unfastening his trousers.
William had forgotten about the English Rose but spied her when he refilled his glass. “Would you care for some claret?”
Minutes later, he wasn’t laughing along with the other spectators throughout the theater, mocking the actors. Unable to pretend he didn’t notice the unabashedly titillating behavior, he stared as Haughley stood and dropped his trousers. His ladybird, on her knees, set about pleasuring him noisily.
The devilish snake in William’s trousers swelled as he wondered what it would feel like if Beatrice—
He forced his gaze to the woman next to him, the woman he could order to her knees this very second. Her pale, perfect cleavage nearly glowed in the darkness of the box, drawing his eyes.
He looked away, unable to quell the pang of longing he felt for his wife’s breasts instead.They belong to your son! Your children!he reminded himself. It didn’t work, damn it; his inhibitions loosened by the wine, he found his mind returning to the image of Bea in that illusion of a nightgown she had worn once.
Haughley was grunting and gasping as wet, rhythmic noses emanated from his crotch. The English Rose stepped out to request that another bottle be brought up, returning quickly from her errand. She was a far better actress than anyone on stage tonight. When she moved closer to him and slipped her hand beneath his waistcoat and caressed him through his shirt, he very nearly believed she wanted to touch him.
She seemed almost relieved when her hand moved to his arousal and found him fully hard. Her pleasantly warm breath slid over his earlobe. “Please.” Her palm covered him and rubbed. “Without wine on hand, have you any other suggestions about how I might slake my terrible thirst?”
As stimulating as her words were, and no matter how he tried to succumb to his lustful urges, he found himself pushing her hand away after only a few expert strokes.
“What is it, my lord?” she asked quietly.
William didn’t answer. If he spoke his reservations aloud, they would gain power over him.
“Sharing your burden will lighten it, I promise,” the perceptive courtesan said.
“My wife,” he breathed, the words full of torment.
