Love and Other Scandals (7 page)

He didn’t seem concerned; if anything, her words brought a faint grin to his lips. Staring up at his mouth, so near her own, Joan felt her stomach turn itself into another twist. Why the devil had he asked her to dance? With his one hand spread over her back, holding her close, and his other hand holding hers, it was all too easy for her wretched imagination to take flight and pretend he wasn’t the biggest boor in London, but someone who had once told her he liked impertinent girls.

“You’re safe with me,” he said. “My intentions are to apologize, return your book, and then go do something I actually enjoy.”

Joan almost rolled her eyes. Safe from ravishment, obviously, but not from irritation. “I accept your apology, halfhearted and weak though it was. I think I feel a pain in my ankle, you may escort me back to my friends now.” Most gentlemen usually accepted the excuse gratefully. She hoped Lord Burke would do something decent for once.

His steps didn’t falter. “Oh, no. Not yet. I’m not through with you.” And before she could ask what that meant, he twirled her with a little extra vigor and sent them both around a nearby pillar and into the alcove a few feet behind it that held a stand of potted palms.

“What—?” she began in a furious whisper, but he put one gloved fingertip on her lips as he reached inside his evening jacket and withdrew
50 Ways to Sin
—which, she couldn’t help noticing, was now unwrapped, exposing the title to full view.

“I also apologize for reducing you to tears in the bookshop,” he said, holding it out.

She stared at it in frustrated longing. So near, and yet so impossible for her to take. “I cannot walk back into the ballroom with it in my hand! Where will I put it?”

He wagged it back and forth, the evil gleam in his eyes completely undermining the solemn innocence of his expression. “You don’t mean to say you purchased something inappropriate, do you, Miss Bennet?”

“If anyone sees this, I shall swear on my grandmother’s grave you were trying to tempt me into debauchery with that piece of filth—not that I have any idea what it is.”

Now he was beginning to grin. “Debauchery! You strike fear into my heart—and yet a small amount of curiosity as well. What sort of debauchery do you think I had planned, some ten feet from Lady Malcolm’s guests? I prefer more privacy than a pair of potted palms offers.”

“Lady Elliot would be astonished to hear that.”

He laughed, a low, lazy sound unafflicted by any of the nerves that gripped Joan. “She’s the one who left the door open—not that I was debauching her in any way. But enough teasing. I did mean to apologize and return your little story.” He leaned closer, still smiling. “Here,” he said softly—almost tauntingly. “Take it.”

Joan squeezed her hands together. Under no circumstances could she slip it under her garter in front of him. “I can’t. You have to keep it.”

He sighed. “Spare me women of no imagination. Turn around.”

“Why?” Before she could protest further, he had taken her by the shoulders and spun her around to face the wall, then crowded up against her until she must be quite invisible to anyone passing by. Joan braced her hands against the plaster, struggling to keep enough space to breath. Great heavens—she could feel him behind her. His foot had slid between hers, and his chest was right at her back. She shuffled her feet, trying vainly to inch closer to the wall, and felt the brush of his knee on the back of her leg. And then she felt his fingers at the fastenings of her bodice, plucking loose the lacing that held it closed.

She was as stricken as Lot’s wife, immobile at the wickedness before her. Or, rather, behind her. The most notorious rake in London was unlacing her gown.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured next to her ear. “Your virtue is safe with me tonight.”

Her virtue, perhaps, but not her imagination. She gulped for air as her bodice grew loose. Joan closed her eyes, trying not to wish he did have designs on her virtue. Not because she wanted
him
, of course, but because she had never been the object of anyone’s uncontrollable desires, and had certainly never been pressed up against a wall by any halfway desirable man. And however boorish Tristan Burke might be, even Joan couldn’t deny he was desirable.

“Good Lord—how tightly did you lace this corset?”

A flush of humiliation burned up her throat at his murmur. Trust him to notice that. “Never mind,” she said through her teeth. “Just hurry . . .”

He stopped her wriggling with one hand on her waist, his fingers splayed over her hip. “If you’re going to lace it up tightly to display your bosom, you ought to forgo all this.” With his other hand he flicked the elegant fall of lace that frothed over her gown’s neckline. “What good is a delectable display of bosom if no one can enjoy it?”

“My bosom is none of your concern!”

There was a pause before he replied. “Of course not.” She felt his fingers sliding along the loosened back of her gown, and then a crinkle of paper. He was putting
50 Ways to Sin
down the back of her bodice. “I hope you trust your maid.”

“I don’t have any choice now, do I? Lace me up!” she hissed.

He laughed very quietly, his nimble fingers tugging at her laces again. Joan glared at a thin crack running down the wall in front of her, wishing she didn’t feel every stroke of his fingers on her back, even through her stays, which seemed to be growing tighter with every moment. She tried to think of what fantastical story she would tell if someone burst upon them; it seemed they had been in this alcove for an hour or more.

She spun around as soon as his fingers lifted away from her. “Thank you, now let me by.”

Instead of moving aside, he only propped one elbow beside her head, blocking her in. “Why are you so controlled by your mother?”

“Controlled by . . . ?” This time she did roll her eyes. “Let me see. Because I am an unmarried female with no fortune of my own, no property of my own, and no rights of my own. Unlike you, I am not at liberty to rendezvous in secluded corners, even with someone who has no interest in my virtue, because it would be improper. Ruinous, even. Not that anyone has shown the slightest interest in besmirching my virtue, but appearances, you know, are so important for a young lady.” She said the last in a creditable imitation of her mother’s voice, but then sighed. “I don’t suppose your mother cares about your reputation, but mine cares a great deal about mine. I really don’t want to spend the rest of the Season locked in my room just because you couldn’t manage to apologize in a normal and genteel manner, so please let me pass.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Who said I had no interest in your virtue?”

Joan gaped at him. “You—you did!”

“No, I said it was safe with me tonight.” He pinched one of her ringlets. “There’s a difference.”

She paused, watching him warily, but he certainly gave no sign of being overcome with passion and falling upon her in a craze of lust. Not that she should wish for such things anyway, at least not from him. She snapped her mouth shut. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t puzzle out that subtlety at the moment.”

His mouth crooked. “Still impertinent.”

“You have no idea how much,” she told him.

“Believe me, I don’t doubt—” He broke off, lifting his head as though listening to something, then abruptly ducked and crowded her back behind the potted palms.

“What are you doing? Is someone coming?” She tried to push him aside.

“Yes,” he hissed. “Shh.”

Joan blanched. “My mother?” she whimpered.

“Shh!” He wasn’t paying attention to her at all, but was clearly listening for something, his expression fierce yet distant.

Oh God. Even if it wasn’t Mother, it might be anyone who loved a good gossip. Joan pictured a year in exile in Cornwall, away from her friends and the shopping of town, which would surely be her punishment if she was caught practically in Tristan Burke’s embrace. Her only hope was to put some distance between them. She pulled against his grip. “Let me go, or I shall scream.”

“Hush,” he whispered. “For the love of God, woman, hold your tongue for once.”

“Why? Who is coming? You must know it would give the completely wrong impression, if someone were to see you embracing me—”

He looked down at her in disbelief. “Can you never do as anyone asks? Are you totally mad?”

Joan set her jaw. She was a very reasonable person; he was the one at fault here. He had forced her into a dark room, withheld her pamphlet, and then confronted her in full view of everyone at the ball. Now he had her pinned against the wall behind the potted palms, and even though her pulse was leaping and something awfully like excitement had set her blood surging at the way he held her, she had to get out of here. Her gaze locked with his, she drew a deep, deliberate breath to cry out.

“Damn,” she thought he muttered, and then before she could make a sound his mouth came down on hers. Joan made a startled
eep
and almost fell before his arms tightened around her.

She had been kissed before—or rather, she thought she’d been kissed before. But compared to this, those previous experiences were mere pecks on the cheek. Tristan Burke held her in a way that left no doubt of his intentions; she could feel every inch of his body pressed against hers, hard and unyielding. His arm curved around her waist, and his hand—shockingly—curved around her hip, holding her body against his. His other hand was around the back of her neck, keeping her from retreating. Which, of course, she would have done at once, if only he hadn’t been holding her so and kissing her so and then his tongue ran along her lips and she started to protest and then . . . he made a sound like a starving man in sight of a feast . . . and she felt the same way . . .

It might have been a year later that he lifted his head. Joan would have sworn an age had passed. As it was, she had to hold on to him—actually, she was already holding on to him; when had that happened?—and struggle to breathe again.

“You—you kissed me,” she managed to gasp. Her tight stays seemed to have cut off all her air. She groped for her fan, trying desperately not to faint.

He was staring down at her, still holding her tightly, but at her words he gave a small shake of his head. His arms loosened. “I had to hear myself think for a moment.”

That stung. She glared at him, even though her heart was still leaping about inside her chest. “There are other ways—”

He leaned closer, looking intent, and Joan snapped her mouth closed. Was he going to kiss her again? And if so, should she slap him now . . . or kiss him back this time?

“This way worked,” he whispered. “Don’t think I won’t do it again.”

And he turned and walked away, leaving her—for once—utterly speechless.

Chapter 7

S
omehow, Joan returned to the ballroom, hoping no one would be able to tell by looking at her what had happened. She didn’t even
know
what had happened; the mere facts of the story didn’t begin to explain it. Tristan Burke had danced with her. She could reason that away as part of his plan to torment her at every turn. He had apologized for saying she looked like an umbrella, which was surely just some vestige of good manners, even if it was done in his usual arrogant way. But then he had called her bosom delectable and implied he would like to see it. He hinted that her virtue might not always be safe with him. And then he kissed her, the way a rake would kiss his lover. The way a man would kiss his wife after a year’s absence. The way Joan had dreamed of being kissed for the last eight years.

If it had been anyone else, she would have been floating on air. Since it was Tristan Burke who had kissed her so thoroughly and so passionately . . . she wasn’t sure. And she really had no idea what to tell her friends, who would have noticed that Lord Burke whisked her around a corner and out of sight for several minutes. There was no way on earth they would believe he had simply been handing her the copy of
50 Ways to Sin
in that time.

Fortunately she was saved from Abigail’s and Penelope’s curiosity by her father. “Joan, we’re going now,” Papa asked, catching her just before she reached the Weston sisters. “Mother’s unwell.”

“I—really?” Over her father’s shoulder, she could see Penelope almost dancing on the spot with impatience. Even Abigail was watching her with naked curiosity. A fiery inquisition awaited her. “That’s—that’s dreadful. Is she very ill?”

“Well, I hope not, but she needs to rest. Are you terribly disappointed to leave early? I could ask Douglas to bring you home—”

“No, no,” she said quickly. Douglas had given her a dark glare when he saw her dancing with his friend. She didn’t want to have a scolding from him, of all people. “I’ll come now.” She raised her hand in farewell to her friends, ignoring Penelope’s outraged look, and followed her father from the ballroom. They found her mother resting on a sofa in a small salon off the main hall. Lady Bennet looked pale and tired, and she coughed as they came into the room.

“Mother!” Joan forgot her anxiety over Lord Burke. She wasn’t used to seeing her poised, fashionable mother laid low, and certainly never in public. “What happened?”

Mother smiled. “A spasm, dear. I’ve got a sore throat and can’t seem to stop coughing. Your father was worried, but I don’t want you to miss the ball—”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she replied hastily. “But it’s more than a scratchy throat. You’ve been coughing for days now!”

“Do you see?” Her father stepped up, his arms folded across his chest. “Joan’s noticed. Marion, you must see a physician.”

Mother flipped one hand. “He’ll tell me to sip warm tea and rest. I shall be fine, George.”

“Then
I
need to see the physician, so he can prescribe me some physick that will keep me from worrying about you,” returned her husband. “I’ve already sent for him.”

Mother sighed. “Very well. But you must stay here so Joan needn’t miss the ball. She looks so lovely, George, and took such time over her hair—”

How long it did take to make these ringlets?
echoed Lord Burke’s wicked voice in her head. “Nonsense,” cried Joan. “To tell the truth, Mother, I was a bit tired and don’t mind leaving at all.” She leaned forward to take her mother’s hand, and felt a crinkle along her spine. Oh yes; there was also that. Funny how she hadn’t thought once of reading
50 Ways to Sin
since Lord Burke kissed her.

A footman came to tell them their carriage was waiting, and Papa helped Mother to her feet and led her out to the street. Lady Malcolm came hurrying up to wish Mother a quick recovery, and Papa thanked her. Joan gave a quick curtsy and murmured her own thanks, and then they were on the way home.

For once the ride was quiet. Normally Mother would have asked her how she found the evening, if she’d seen any intriguing fashions or met any gentlemen or heard any interesting on dits. Tonight, though, she leaned on Papa’s arm and closed her eyes. Papa met Joan’s gaze across the dark carriage and he gave her a smile.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” he asked quietly.

She nodded. It was safer than saying anything.

“I thought I saw you dancing,” he added. “Who was the gentleman?”

“Just a friend of Douglas’s,” she said, hoping he really hadn’t seen who it was and praying he wouldn’t ask more. “I saw Douglas dance twice with Felicity Drummond,” she went on, trying to keep the subject off herself. “He looked halfway besotted. Mother’s plan may come to fruition after all.”

Eyes still closed, Mother smiled. “I knew he would like her, if he could only be made to meet her.”

To Joan’s intense relief, no one said anything more of dancing. They reached home and Papa all but lifted Mother down from the carriage and helped her into the house. Joan was left to herself, which suited her perfectly. She didn’t wish her mother ill, but tonight of all nights she was glad for a respite from her mother’s usual keen eye. She bade her parents good night and wished her mother well, then hurried up to her own room, where Janet, her mother’s abigail, was waiting for her.

“Go to Lady Bennet. She is unwell,” Joan told her.

Janet had been with her mother for almost thirty years. Her eyes widened in alarm. “I’ll send Polly to help you, Miss Bennet,” she said before whisking out the door toward Lady Bennet’s rooms.

The instant she was alone, Joan reached for the lacings at her back. If Lord Burke hadn’t tied them too tightly, she should be able to find the string and get the pamphlet out before Polly arrived to help her. Not even her imagination could conjure up a suitable explanation for the most infamous story in London finding its way down the back of her dress. For several minutes she twisted and squirmed, both arms bent behind her in a silent, frantic ballet. Finally she located the string—he hadn’t knotted it, thank heavens—and pulled, loosening the bodice. With a heroic stretch she crossed one arm over her shoulder and groped as far down her back as she could reach. Just as Polly tapped at the door, her fingers closed on a corner of paper and she yanked it out.

“Just a moment,” she called, running across the room to shove the pamphlet under her pillow. “Come.”

“La, miss, I’m sorry,” gasped Polly as she bustled into the room and saw Joan with her gown sagging off one shoulder. “I came as soon as Janet told me, but if I’d known you were that eager to get undressed—”

“No, it’s fine,” said Joan hastily. “My stays were a little tighter than usual and I thought I could untie them myself, that’s all.”

“Oh.” Polly clucked her tongue and hurried over to finish unfastening the gown. “I see what you mean, miss, these are tight,” she said a moment later. “Shall I bring a cool cloth?”

“No,” said Joan, fidgeting as Polly took the gown away to fold it. “Just unlace me. I’m sure I’ll be fine once they are undone.”

And she did feel better when the constricting stays came off. She took a deep breath and held it a moment, beginning to think she would escape without serious repercussions from this evening’s adventure. It was only a matter of time before Mother learned she had danced with Lord Burke, but now that she was away from him and that infuriating, unsettling gleam in his eye, Joan was sure she would think of some safe story to explain everything. Casting blame onto Douglas would be a central part of it, she decided; she would say Douglas had made a wager with his friend, and that was the only reason he’d asked her to dance. Mother wouldn’t believe Douglas’s insistence that he’d done no such thing—Mother might not want to know how wild her son was, but she wasn’t a fool—and Joan would add that she only accepted the invitation to avoid a scene. If Mother asked about Lord Burke’s behavior, Joan would say he had no manners and was boring. There would be no mention whatsoever of potted palms.

“Shall I brush out your hair, miss?” Polly asked.

She looked at her ringlets, the result of over an hour of painstaking work by Janet, and sighed. Unlike the sleek curls in the Ackermann’s illustration, her hair stuck out in all directions, making her look like a poodle. “Yes.”

As Polly tugged the comb through her hair, undoing all that effort, Joan studied her reflection. She really wasn’t beautiful, but Lord Burke had kissed her anyway. She tried to tell herself that he had only said it because he was a notorious rake and no female was safe around him, but at the same time . . . he had called her bosom delectable. She shifted in her seat a little and inhaled deeply, trying to see what he could mean by that. Like the rest of her, her bosom was full and round. Janet had laced her stays particularly tight this evening to try to minimize it, but it hadn’t worked. Joan just felt trussed like a goose, and short of breath all evening. Ever since she turned sixteen, she had viewed her rounded figure with dismay. As if it weren’t bad enough to be tall, she had to be plump, too. It wasn’t a fashionable figure for young ladies, who were supposed to be slim and delicate so they could wear the latest fashions to advantage. Was it possible some gentlemen might like it?

Not that she cared what Tristan Burke thought. No, she reminded herself, he was a rake. A scoundrel. A rogue. No one she ought to think about. If he was the only sort of gentleman who admired her figure, she didn’t want to know, let alone care.

Although if he thought her bosom delectable, perhaps some other man would as well.

When Polly had finally gone and Joan was alone, able to take out her hard-won copy of
50 Ways to Sin
at long last, she couldn’t keep her mind on it. She turned the pamphlet over and over in her hands. It looked innocent enough;
50 Ways to Sin
, it read in plain letters that might have graced any theological tract. The story inside, though, was anything but sober and edifying. Every issue chronicled the flirtations of the rather wrongly named Lady Constance, a woman of the ton. Beyond the shadowy details of being a widow of some social standing, Constance told little of herself or her history, but a great deal about the gentlemen who pursued her. And instead of coy phrases that left a great deal to the imagination, Lady Constance described every intimate detail of her amorous encounters.

That alone would have sufficed to make the stories scandalous. What made them the most sought after publication in London, though, were the gentlemen Constance took to her boudoir. Statesmen, officers, men of science and men of letters, they all bore striking resemblances to actual gentlemen. If one took Lady Constance’s word for it, she consorted with the crème de la crème of English society, right under its nose. Part of society was appalled at such indiscretion; the gentlemen themselves protested their innocence of such carnal activities and offered rewards for the author’s identity; and everyone else seethed with delight at the challenge of unmasking each of Constance’s lovers.

Joan even knew her own mother read them, from overheard snippets of conversation with other matrons. That hardly meant she would excuse her daughter reading them, of course; if anything, knowing what was in
50 Ways to Sin
only assured Lady Bennet how thoroughly inappropriate it really was. Which, naturally, only intensified Joan’s desire to read it, in spite of all obstacles. It was published in a mysterious, almost covert way, with irregular distribution. One had to know which booksellers sold it, and then one had to approach at the right time. New issues appeared without warning, and were sold within hours. This was the first issue Joan had been able to locate on her own. Previously Penelope had stolen her mother’s copies and shared them with her and Abigail. All three girls were avid followers of the series.

But somehow tonight . . . Joan flipped open the cover with one finger, though she kept seeing palm fronds instead of words. Tonight she had been kissed by a true rake, and reading about fictional kisses and embraces paled in comparison to the real thing.

She wondered if Lord Burke had read any of it. She wondered if he even knew what it was. It seemed unlikely that he would have resisted making some comment about it, after the way he’d teased her in the bookshop about buying prurient poetry. But then, she never would have thought he’d buy it for her, even if his only goal was to torment her.

She pressed one hand to her temple, trying to force Lord Boor physically from her mind. Of course he hadn’t read it; why would he need to, when his own life was probably ten times more debauched than anything in these pages? Assuming one could possibly be more debauched. Some issues made her blush scarlet and lie awake wondering if the acts described were even plausible. Was there a man alive who could bring a woman to such heights of ecstasy that she almost fainted? It made for a thrilling story, so thrilling that it seemed incredible. But tonight, for the first time, she began to think maybe it was possible—wildly exaggerated, most likely, but slightly, remotely, possible.

With renewed interest she smoothed open the front page. The previous issue had featured a taut scene at the opera, where Constance’s lover had stolen into her box and knelt on the floor behind her chair to pleasure her. They had almost been discovered when Constance’s sighs reached a pinnacle at the exact moment the music suddenly stopped. The description of the scene proved the author had been there, and everyone in London was sure they had had the box next to hers. The issue had ended with Constance’s vow of greater propriety, which no one believed—or wished to believe. Joan plumped up her pillow and settled in to read how wickedly that vow would be broken.