Truth Within Dreams

Avon, Massachusetts

Copyright © 2015 by Velva George.
All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

Published by

Crimson Romance

an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

www.crimsonromance.com

ISBN 10: 1-4405-8499-0

ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8499-2

eISBN 10: 1-4405-8500-8

eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8500-5

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © Shutterstock/Pressmaster

To Mahala, my cohort in many an ill-conceived scheme.

Mega thanks to Tara Gelsomino, Julie Sturgeon, and Jess Verdi, the Crimson Romance triumvirate of awesome. Thanks, too, to my copyeditor, Annie Cosby, who has an incredible eye (and memory!) for detail. Deep appreciation goes to the art department at Crimson, who never fail to make my stories the prettiest books on the block.

Sarah and Michelle, thank you for keeping me sane and on track. To my SCWW writing group, thank you for the many years of friendship and critiques. A heart full of gratitude to The Oasis for always cheering me on and spreading the good word. You ladies (and Jim!) are the very best.

Finally, a big thank you to my family, near and far. Spouse, parents, siblings, kids, inlaws, and cousins—I love you all and couldn't do this without you. This go around, Patty wins first place for Most Enthusiastic Support. The rest of you, try harder next time.

“That’s never happened with a woman before.”

Henry De Vere sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the counterpane to his chest, and aimed this pronouncement over his shoulder to the woman whose gaze was drilling into his bare back.

The weight of her attention was oppressive, and Henry couldn’t get a handle on it. Did she pity him? Hate him? Was she waiting for him to leave the room so she could burst out laughing?

He couldn’t quite bear turning to look at her. It was possible he’d never be able to look at another human being again. “I’m sorry about your slippers.”

There was a pregnant pause from the other side of the bed.

Finally, she broke the silence. “Will you be paying for my shoes, or should I bill your friend?” Her speech, Henry noted, had regained its cultured tones. A few minutes ago, he’d awakened to her screeching at him in a northern dialect he’d had trouble deciphering.

Embarrassment swarmed his skin like bees crawling all over him, itchy and hot, stinging his ears, making them burn. “I’ll pay for them,” he muttered.

When she spoke again after another miserable stretch of quiet, her voice was husky, amused. “You’d be surprised, the things I see in my profession.”

Considering this, Henry frowned. It was the first direct reference she’d made to her line of work. Henry knew what she was, of course, but he hadn’t wanted to think of her as a courtesan who received payment in exchange for her favors. He’d enjoyed fancying himself as a virile stallion, whose potent masculinity she’d been powerless to resist. But maybe … maybe it was better this way. After all, she
was
a professional, and therefore, probably encountered her fair share of physical impairments. The knot between his shoulder blades eased a fraction.

“So,” he said, watching his toe trace the pattern in the rug, “you’ve seen this before?”

Silence again.

How had those blasted bees managed to get behind his eyeballs? Henry blinked against the hot prickles.

“How old are you, Mr. De Vere?” she asked. “Lord Sheridan mentioned it was your birthday.”

“Nineteen,” he whispered, not trusting his voice not to crack.

A few months back, Sheri had written to Henry in his feverishly excited way when he’d first made the acquaintance of Kitty Newman, an exclusive London courtesan whose usual clients included the highest members of Society. Sheri’s warped mind had decided that a glorious night with Kitty would be the ideal birthday present for his younger friend. Using an intricate machinery of social connections and favors Henry didn’t understand, Sheri had managed to procure Kitty’s services for the occasion. She’d even traveled to Oxford to spend the night with Henry in a little house owned by another of Sheri’s well-heeled friends.

“Nineteen,” Kitty mused aloud. “By my nineteenth birthday, I was already mistress to a minor member of the Swedish royal family. He bought me a pleasure yacht. Now look at me.” She sighed.

The assignation had started well enough. Henry had presented himself at the appointed time, a fistful of flowers clutched in a sweaty palm and stomach cramping with nerves. To his surprise, Kitty had led him not to the bedroom, but to a little sitting room, where they’d chatted over a glass of sherry.

Kitty Newman wasn’t at all what Henry had expected from a courtesan. She’d asked about his studies, and what he liked to do in his free time. They’d discussed books they’d both read, and she’d told him about an art exhibition she’d recently attended. The dress she wore was fashionable, but nothing his admittedly uneducated eye would call risqué. Altogether, that first hour felt very much like many he’d spent in the company of other ladies, in other sitting rooms. Specifically, he thought of the Baxters, his neighbors back home. Lady Baxter always asked after his studies, too, while insisting he have another biscuit and simultaneously discouraging Claude, her youngest son and two years his junior, from finishing the entire plateful. Meanwhile, Claudia, Claude’s twin, pressed him for tales of the things he’d seen and done in Oxford and London. Her pleasure at his recitations never failed to make him feel worldlier than he really was.

Thinking of Claudia, a sudden pang of homesickness, such as he’d not experienced in a long time, needled through his chest.

“Was I your first, Mr. De Vere?”

He nodded.

Behind him, the bedclothes rustled. “I suspected.”

More silence followed. She didn’t say precisely
why
she suspected his inexperience, but he must have been too … something … during their copulation. Eager, perhaps. Lacking finesse. And now she’d laid bare the lie in his stupid, stupid statement:
That’s never happened with a woman before.
Of course not.
Nothing
had ever happened with a woman before.

A thought, no more than an earthworm of hope, nosed to the surface of his consciousness. “Being the first time, maybe that’s why … it … happened.” He couldn’t bring himself to specifically articulate his disgrace. “Perhaps it wouldn’t happen again.”

“Perhaps,” she said, her dubious tone neatly plucking that lowly worm out of the earth and leaving it to bake in the unforgiving sun. She was being charitable, treating him like a child who needed placating, which only compounded his mortification.

All Henry wanted to do was get away. His clothes lay scattered across the floor. To collect them, he’d have to stand up, expose himself again. He didn’t know if he could do that. Hadn’t he exposed himself enough for one night?

But he couldn’t just continue sitting here, either. If he wasn’t going to get back into bed with Kitty (and he wasn’t), then he had to take action.

Henry tried several mental tricks to motivate himself. First, he imagined his elder brother, Duncan, standing in the corner, his thin upper lip curled in disdain.
For God’s sake
, he could hear his brother snap,
you’re a disgrace to the De Vere name. Act like a man, why don’t you.

Henry’s lip curled. “Act like a man, why don’t you,” he mocked under his breath. “Shut up, Duncan.”

“Beg your pardon?” said Kitty. “Did you say something?”

“No, no, nothing,” Henry assured her.

Quickly, he thought of The Honorables, his group of close friends. The other four men would offer a variety of responses to his predicament, from good-natured laughter to a sympathetic slap on the back. None of those seemed very comforting right now.

He twisted his shoulders; his skin still felt wrong, and his stomach hurt. That little stab of homesickness he’d felt before returned. It wasn’t his own home, Fairbrook, he missed, but Rudley Court, for which he longed. There had been nothing wrong with his own home, per se, but the happiest times of his childhood had been spent with the Baxters, free and accepted in a way he’d never quite experienced at Fairbrook. A dose of that loving acceptance would be most welcome right now.

While sitting there, on a borrowed bed in a borrowed house with a borrowed woman, Henry thought wistfully of tree forts and foot races, picnics and riding, charades and dancing lessons. And he yearned.

All you have to do is step through that door,
he told himself,
and you’ll be there.
He could picture it now, an endless summer day at Rudley Court spent with Claude and Claudia, the people he might just love best in the world, alongside The Honorables. In his imagination, they were all children again, and everything was easy and fun.

With his mind’s eye full of lily pads and skipping stones, Henry released the counterpane, instead holding close those feelings of warmth and safety. He made quick work of dressing.

Kitty, he noted, did not protest his impending departure.

“You won’t … you won’t
tell
anyone, will you?”

“Discretion is at least half the reason my services are so expensive. None will hear of this from me, upon my honor.” She gave a dry laugh. “For whatever the honor of a woman like me is worth.”

At last, he made himself lift his eyes. “Thank you for your time and company,” he said. “I do apologize.”

The courtesan gave him a wan smile. “Fortunately, I brought another pair of slippers with me. Good evening, Mr. De Vere.”

• • •

When he flung open the door of the little house, it wasn’t Rudley Court on a summer’s day that greeted him, but the blustery night of an unfamiliar Oxford street.

As he wended his way back to more familiar stomping grounds, the worst of his ordeal slid off his skin to the pavement, from whence he hoped it would be swept up and buried in a dust heap, there to rot into oblivion. But an oily residue of shame remained in his gut, churning and mixing with the discomfort that had plagued him all night, transforming into some acidic poison that trickled into his veins.

What if he wasn’t normal? What if he could never truly be with a woman?

Before tonight, Henry’s lust had been an unfocused thing he barely comprehended. Women were all big eyes and pouty lips and creamy skin and the impossibly soft, decadent pillows of flesh that plumped over the edges of their bodices. To be sure, he’d heard plenty from the fellows, and he’d pored over dirty pictures like they’d unlock the secrets of the universe, but women—real, flesh-and-blood women—had remained a cypher he couldn’t puzzle out, just wanted in the most ferocious, generic way imaginable.

And now that he knew what, precisely, was under those many layers of silks and satins and petticoats, now that he knew what a real woman looked like, felt like, and, God, tasted like—now that he
knew
, his humiliation was all the more shattering. How could he ever bring himself to even approach a woman again? What if this same embarrassment were to befall him?

He was lost in such turbulent thoughts until the lights still blazing in the windows of The Hog’s Teeth caught his eye. A dram of something wet and brain-numbing would be most welcome. Ducking into the tavern, he shook droplets of mist from the brim of his hat and clapped his hands before a fire blazing in the huge hearth.

“Henry!” he heard.

Turning, he saw Harrison Dyer at The Honorables’ table, waving him over. It seemed ludicrous for them to reserve the large table for themselves now, what with Brandon off in Spain with the Army, Norman living at the Inns of Court in London, and Sheridan flitting about doing whatever it was lazy rich boys did with their days. But Henry and Harrison, younger than the other men and still attending the university, maintained their claim on the table like they were the last survivors of a battle, making their stand.