Chapter Six

He missed.

Lord Westfall hadn’t kissed her full on the mouth. Then, when she looked up into his steely gray eyes, she realized he’d done exactly as he’d intended.

He wanted to give her a kiss, not take one from her. It was a fine distinction, but it meant something to Nora.

She hadn’t met a man like that in years.

Not since Lewis…

She tried to shove the memory of her dead husband away but, wavering and indistinct, he appeared at the edge of her vision. If she looked in that direction, she knew from sad experience that he’d only vanish. She closed her eyes so she wouldn’t be tempted.

Westfall seemed to take it as an invitation and covered her mouth with his warm lips.

That was fine with her. She hadn’t been well and truly kissed in ages. Of course, if this was really Lord Westfall’s first kiss, she wasn’t likely to be well kissed. Besides, no man ever kissed a courtesan truly. There were always layers of deception on both sides.

Let Lewis’s ghost watch if he liked. It would serve him right for leaving her.

She knew it wasn’t logical to blame her husband for being killed in the king’s service. Most widows honored the memory of their fallen heroes. If anyone mentioned Lewis to her, and that happened very rarely nowadays, she would claim she was proud of his sacrifice.

The more often a lie was repeated, the more easily it dropped from one’s lips.

It had been more than five years, and she was still furious with him for dying and leaving her desolate. She’d given up everything for him—her home, her family, her place in the world. She’d lavished all she was on him. How could he die and make her go on breathing without him?

She knew it was petty and irrational of her to feel that way. Lewis hadn’t intended to leave her in order to be of service to the Crown and he certainly hadn’t meant to die. But her feelings on the subject resisted all efforts to mold them into something society would accept.

Not that they accepted anything about her.

To top it off, she also felt guilty about being angry with Lewis. So she shoved those emotions down into a tight little part of her heart where no one ever ventured. Then she poked and prodded at her shadowy husband until he disappeared from the edge of her mind.

Lord Westfall was quickly filling up the rest of the available space. He made her breath hitch and her chest tighten.

Nora was a connoisseur of the kiss. An expert, even though it had been a long while since she’d done it. Yet this man’s halting attempts at kissing plucked at a deep place inside her. His mouth on hers was gentle. Sweet.

He gave her a long kiss of unhurried adoration.

That’s ridiculous. He doesn’t adore me. It’s the aura of La Nora that draws men in. The mystique of the courtesan. I know what they are and what they want. I’m safe in a way the respectable women in their lives aren’t.

Then Westfall’s kiss suddenly turned decidedly unsafe. His tongue swept in with full assurance that she wanted him to, and surprisingly enough, she did. It was as if he sensed what she needed before she had the chance to know herself.

Bruise me. I don’t care. I don’t deserve easy.

He brutalized her mouth for a moment with just enough raw aggression to make a drumbeat begin between her thighs. She ached over her emptiness.

Then his kiss turned suddenly soft. Unbearably gentle. Tears pressed the backs of her eyes, but she kept them squeezed shut.

Oh, God, his kiss is like grace dripping from heaven.

Everything she needed and shouldn’t have. Didn’t merit. Unqualified favor. She was coated with it. His mouth caressed her, beguiled her. Little by little, the wall she’d erected around herself began to crumble.

He was seeking the deep Nora, the one she kept hidden. Looking for a way inside her secret self, a place she never allowed anyone to roam.

If this is truly the man’s first kiss, I’m lost.

Nora wedged her arms between them and flattened both palms on his chest. He broke off their kiss before she could give him a push. Again, he’d anticipated her need.

Lord Westfall touched her cheek. It was wet.

“If you’re ready to weep now, I can wait until you’re finished to kiss you again.”

Nora pulled away from him and swiped her eyes. She was probably smearing the paint she’d used to enhance them, but she didn’t care. Westfall’s kiss had made her cry. No one had ever done that to her. Not even Lewis.

Who was this man?

“You will not be kissing me again,” Nora said firmly. The last thing she needed was someone who made her cry. She went to great pains not to feel that much. She pushed past him to leave just as Lady Waldgren was entering, followed by her circle of cronies and sycophants. The despicable old gossip gave Nora the fisheye, then her mouth fell open when she discovered Westfall, standing bold as brass in the midst of the feminine retreat.

“Lord Westfall! What on earth are you doing here?” she screeched. “If you insist on invading the ladies’ retiring room that may be all it takes to convince your poor family to have you committed again.”

Committed?

The word rolled around Nora’s brain as she threaded her way through the milling crowd in the theater’s grand foyer. Albemarle was holding court in one corner of the great room, surrounded by an assemblage of gentlemen who were listening to him with avid attention. When he set himself to charm, no one was better than Benedick. Whatever he wanted from this group, she was sure he would get.

She caught his eye for a moment, but he didn’t signal for her to join him. Sometimes having her draped on his arm was a help and sometimes a hindrance, depending upon whom he was trying to impress. She’d given up feeling hurt or happy about it, no matter which he needed from her at the moment. She made her way back to his private box to wait amid the crushed velvet seats and gilt cherubs that cavorted around the box and above the stage’s curtain. The other opera-goers greeted their friends and acquaintances as they returned to their seats.

A few of them glanced her way, but none sent her any hint of acknowledgment. This was the respectable crowd. The one that followed her exploits in the tabloids with glee while shunning her in person with equal delight.

She lifted her chin to show them she didn’t care.

When she had begun her career as a courtesan, her mentor had advised her that beauty was her stock in trade. She must be diligent in the application of lotions to protect her skin and keep it supple and youthful-appearing for as long as possible.

No one had warned her that she also needed to make it as tough as a rhinoceros hide.

The second act began. Benedick didn’t return until the opera’s unhappy prisoner Florestan was well into a wistful aria about freedom in his dank Seville dungeon.

“Sorry, my dear,” Lord Albemarle whispered. “The business of the House of Lords waits for no man.”

Some aristocrats served in that august body only to speechify about social injustice and rail against the oppression of the downtrodden. They made themselves feel important while accomplishing nothing. By contrast, Benedick was pushing through a number of reforms that would benefit his friends and confound his enemies. He made full use of the system of laws and statutes and bent it to his will.

It wasn’t altruistic, but it was what he did best.

She smiled at him. When she started to turn her attention back to the action on the stage, something caught her eye in the audience instead.

Lord Westfall was taking his seat in the box across the theater from her. Why had she not noticed him there before?

He met her gaze steadily and then looked down at the action on the stage. Her chest constricted as she continued to study him. When she’d first met him at Benedick’s party, she’d thought him awkward, a bit clumsy. Rather like an overgrown puppy.

That was before he’d kissed her. He had seemed singularly accomplished for someone who claimed he’d never kissed a woman.

Westfall was beyond odd. The things he said didn’t fit society’s rules for acceptable conversation. He made her feel exposed, as if he’d somehow seen her naked. She waited for a prickly opinion of him to sprout in her chest. Instead, she felt only confusion and the sort of soppiness she despised in other women.

All because he kissed like a god.

What a befuddling man.

“Penny for your thoughts.” Benedick’s whisper interrupted her musings. She jerked her gaze from Lord Westfall and fastened it on her protector’s face.

“Only a penny?” she said with false gaiety. “Everything about me is far more expensive than that.”

He chuckled. “And worth every sovereign, my dear. I don’t fault you for ogling Viscount Westfall. The man is striking.”

Albemarle was on top of everything. Trust him not to miss her interest in Westfall.

“However, I’d rather you not do it when Lady Waldgren is likely to catch you.”

The Waldgren box was located next to Lord Albemarle’s, close enough that if Benedick wished, he could reach across and hand the beleaguered Lord Waldgren a handkerchief if he needed one to stop up his ears when his wife began nattering on. Now however, the waspish woman was gawking, not gabbing. Her lorgnette was trained not on the stage, but on Benedick and Nora.

Nora cast Lady Waldgren a poisonous smile to let her know she’d been caught snooping. The lorgnette shifted guiltily to the singers below.

“I understand Lord Westfall put in an appearance at my last party, but I didn’t get the chance to meet the man,” Benedick said softly. “Did you?”

She was tempted to lie. It might be better to say that she knew nothing of Westfall, that she’d been staring off into space instead of mooning over him and reliving the feel of his lips on hers. Instead, she leaned toward Benedick. She had myriad acquaintances, but he was her ally in most matters, the closest thing she had to a friend. She owed him truth.

“Yes, I met him, but he didn’t stay long. He’s not… Well, he didn’t seem comfortable in a crowd,” she whispered behind her fan. “Why did you invite him in the first place?”

“Because he and Lord Stanstead are both known associates of the Duke of Camden. Since I can never lure His Grace to one of my fetes, I thought I’d start with his friends and work my way into the duke’s good opinion through that backdoor,” Benedick explained. “He may be a recluse, but Camden swings a good deal of weight in some very important circles. Circles I may find myself in need of someday.”

“And you hope to make him an asset,” Nora concluded. Almost every relationship in Benedick’s life was balanced by how it might benefit him. Even his relationship with her. Yes, he found her company amusing, and they’d formed something approximating a partnership, but if she ceased being useful to him, she doubted he’d trouble himself over her long. Not that he’d be cruel. Benedick wouldn’t send her away without a generous pension, but then he’d move on to someone who would benefit him more.

“The Duke of Camden an asset? Lud, no. Someone of Camden’s stature is no one’s ‘asset.’ Unless I discover that His Grace hides some hideous secret, I’d never be able to bend him to my will.” Benedick sighed. “No, in the Duke of Camden’s case, I have to be content with politics as usual. Quid pro quo and all that. But we still might be able to help each other in areas of mutual interest. Unfortunately, I can’t seem to get close enough to the man to find out what those might be.”

“So in the meantime, we should cultivate the duke’s friends.” She stressed the “we” a bit to remind him that she did bring something to the table besides her pretty face.

He patted her forearm. “Yes, my dear. You may pursue Lord Westfall, if you like. But be discreet.”

“When am I not?”

He arched a brow at her. “You mean other than a few minutes ago when you were practically disrobing the man with your eyes?” Benedick tossed an appraising glance across the theater toward Westfall. “Not that I blame you.”

“I was not disrobing him.” Now that Benedick had mentioned it, all she could think about was what Westfall might have hidden beneath his superfine jacket and starched cravat. The male form held no surprises for her, but every man had his own unique strengths and, sadly, weaknesses as well. Westfall was a large man, broad through the shoulders, and tall. She wondered if he was proportional in other places as well.

“Frankly, I’m more puzzled by him than attracted,” she lied. “What’s this I hear about him being…committed?”

“Now we come to it. I wasn’t going to burst your bubble, since you’re clearly besotted with the fellow. Don’t fret. The gossip wasn’t about him being engaged or otherwise committed to some young lady.” Benedick smirked. “It’s actually much worse.”

Since Lady Waldgren was glaring in their direction again, Benedick took Nora’s hand and brought her knuckles to his lips. When he released her hand, she let it settle on his leg. Then she ran her palm up and down from his knee to mid-thigh.

Might as well give the old biddy something to gossip about. Of course, by the time Lady Waldgren was done with her account of the exchange, the tale would be that Lady Nora Claremont and Lord Albemarle had all but rutted each other blind in the dim light of the opera house.

For the gossip’s sake, Benedick leaned over and bussed his lips on Nora’s neck before continuing to whisper, “According to all reports, your Lord Westfall is mad as a hatter.”

“Mad?” Her hand stopped its light massage. He wasn’t her Lord Westfall, particularly if he was mad, but this was not the place to argue the point.

To further scandalize Lady Waldgren, Benedick removed his pristine white gloves, then tugged off one of hers. He took his time about it, stroking her palm before lacing her bare fingers with his. With this sort of attention to detail, Nora suspected Benedick was a gentle and thorough lover, though she’d never know from actual experience.

“Westfall’s family tried to hush up his condition, of course. Evidently, the problem showed itself when he was quite young. He was tutored at home instead of being sent to Eton or Harrow. They kept him in the country as much as they could, but when his father died and he came into the title, it was impossible to keep his madness a secret any longer.” Benedick shrugged eloquently. “His uncle had him committed to Bedlam a few years ago.”

Bedlam. Something inside Nora stiffened at the sound of the name. Its proponents argued that Bethlem Royal Hospital for the Insane was a necessary evil to protect society from lunatics. But rumors about the cruelty of the dubious “treatments” practiced on Bedlam’s inmates leaked from its walls like filth from a cracked chamber pot.

“Once someone enters Bedlam, they rarely emerge,” she said. Unless they are wrapped in a shroud.

“It is a wonder that Westfall is out and about in society.” Benedick nodded. “Blame it on the Duke of Camden. A few months ago, His Grace inexplicably interested himself in the fellow. He crossed enough palms with coin that he was able to have Westfall released to his care. Heaven only knows what that cost him.” Benedick’s gaze flicked to the viscount and then back to her. “I must say, the poor man cleans up well, but still, one wonders why Camden bothered.”

Obviously, Benedick suspected this was the tip of some secret that might serve his interests. Nora had never met the Duke of Camden, but she blessed him for his compassion.

Bedlam, of all God-forsaken places, and sent there by his family, to boot. Good Lord, what Westfall must have endured. “What does Lord Westfall’s family think of him being out?”

“His uncle is less than pleased, I’m sure. After all, his nephew is the only thing that keeps him from inheriting his dead brother’s title and lands.”

“So Westfall’s commitment may have been motivated solely by greed. Perhaps he isn’t truly mad at all,” Nora said softly as Benedick stroked her forearm. If he meant anything by the caress, she might have found it pleasurable.

“Aren’t you the clever girl? I believe I’m rubbing off on you.” As if to suit his actions to his words, he nuzzled her neck. “But unfortunately, no. Westfall is quite dotty. The fact that his parents recognized it in childhood proves his troubles predate his uncle’s actions.”

Then Benedick turned suddenly to Lady Waldgren, who was still leering at them from the neighboring box. “Perhaps you might wish to hire a painter, Madam. If you capture Lady Nora and me on canvas as we take ease of each other, you may gawk at us at your leisure.”

Lady Waldgren sputtered. “Well, I never—”

“Probably not,” Benedick interrupted. “Therein lies your problem. Good evening, my lady.” He nodded to Lord Waldgren who was half asleep in the chair behind his wife. “My lord, you have my deepest condolences.”

“Why?” Lord Waldgren asked, blinking stupidly as he jerked to full wakefulness. “Who died?”

“We are at the opera. Everybody dies,” Benedick quipped. “But I refer to your patience, sir. It must be totally expired by now. Good evening.”

Benedick raised Nora to her feet and started to shepherd her out without asking if she wished to stay until the entertainment’s end. He’d accomplished what he wanted with that group during intermission. It didn’t matter a jot to him that Nora was engaged in the opera and wanted to know how the story ended. She cast a glance at the stage where the heroine was still searching for her imprisoned husband amid the forbidding cells. Then she looked once more across the theater toward the Duke of Camden’s box.

Lord Westfall’s gaze was fixed on her, a look of concentration on his handsome features. It wasn’t the glazed-eyed stare of lust she was expecting. It was more as if she were a museum piece whose meaning he was trying to unravel.

She wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Or of him.