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LANCE GRUNTED, BRACING himself against the settee, as Vale continued to pound him from behind. With beads of perspiration glistening on his face and back, Vale thrust vigorously into Lance. From another settee in her expansive boudoir, Penelope watched them with a hand between her thighs. She was the first to spend. Then Lance. And finally Vale.
After Vale had discharged into Lance, he staggered back, taking in deep gulps of air. Lance collapsed onto the settee.
“Damn me,” Lance said between gasps, “that were the best fuck I’ve had in years.”
“An absolute vision,” murmured Penelope.
Catching his breath, Vale sat down on a nearby wingchair and said nothing.
“My body shall always be made available to you, Dunnesford, as a means to release your anguish,” Lance offered.
Penelope raised her quizzing glass at Vale. “Indeed, I cannot fair remember when you have fucked with such vehemence. What, in God’s name, transpired between you and your wife?”
“Nothing but my failure to dissuade her from returning,” Vale grumbled.
“Why dissuade her if she enjoys it here?”
Vale glanced sharply at Penelope. “She is merely a curious child. She does not understand the ways of the Cavern.”
“Then why are you so troubled?” Lance asked, folding his arms beneath his head, his knees draped over the arms of the settee.
“I think your little wife would make a fine member of our establishment,” Penelope declared.
“That won’t happen, Penelope,” Vale informed her. He turned to Lance. “If I am troubled, it is because I have been incapable of doing that which I must do to discourage her future attendance here.”
She was Harold’s sister, Vale reminded himself as he recalled the first time he had met her. He had been waiting for Harold at the Delaney home so that the two of them could go out fishing. Harold’s two-year old sister had wandered into the parlor, carrying a children’s book and looking for someone to read to her.
“Read it, this one,” she had instructed him, approaching a complete stranger with no hesitation.
He had been caught quite off guard by the imp with her head of motley curls, but there had been such a complacency to her directive, as if it were the most natural order of things that he should read to her, as if his presence in the parlor had been Providence. There was no nursemaid in attendance—he later discovered the woman had wearied of chasing after her charge and left the child in the nursery, not foreseeing the child would open the door on her own—and when little Harrietta had spread the book on his lap, he felt he had no choice but to submit to the child’s order.
In the following years, Harrietta was often, though not always, an adjunct to their escapades. She clearly worshipped Harold, who in turn, indulged his sister until they eventually matured beyond the point at which it was acceptable. Vale could tell Harrietta had been loath to conform to the expectations of a proper young woman in society when she had come of age.
That was apparently still the case, Vale thought grimly.
“I could take your place,” Lance proposed. “I have no prejudice with your wife.”
“No,” Vale snapped, gripped with an insane possessiveness, though he knew his friend had only a generous motive behind the proposition.
And even though he himself had suggested to Harrietta earlier that he might share her body, he would not have allowed another to touch his wife. Not in the Cavern. Not anywhere.
Penelope raised her brows. “I think it rather hypocritical of you, Vale, to prohibit your wife from enjoying the pleasures of the Cavern when you have partaken for so long.”
“You will take her side as well?” Vale asked as he rose to his feet. First Charlotte. Now Penelope.
“I suspect she would make a natural submissive. She only needs the proper instruction, and you are clearly qualified.”
“Ironically,” Lance drawled, “neither one of you would be committing adultery to boot.”
“She doesn’t know that,” Vale said, his tone tinged with sarcasm—or was it bitterness?
“Posh,” Penelope said, “since when do we care of such matters as adultery?”
“True enough,” Lance conceded. “All the same, for myself, I am content to remain a bachelor.”
Grabbing his clothes, Vale began to dress. The thread of their conversation rankled him, and he had no wish to tarry with Penelope and Lance. Not tonight.
“Off to the Countess, are we?” Penelope inquired. “Beautiful woman. Wish she would make an appearance here.”
“Daresay your wife knows about the Countess?” asked Lance.
Vale stopped. He wasn’t sure and had made no assumptions. He had simply made it clear before they tied the knot that she had to respect the life that he led, and he in turn, would not question hers.
“Why has my wife, of a sudden, become such a topic of interest?” Vale returned.
“Because if it weren’t for her, I doubt you would have buggered me,” Lance replied flatly. “And I do hope to have an encore of our performance.”
Vale did not reveal to his friend that their buggering had not done much to relieve his disquiet. After taking his leave of the Cavern, with the reins of his horse in hand, he was tempted to turn left toward his home in Grosvenor Square rather than right to where the Countess lived. There was no need for him to see her for Francis would usher her safely home. And the Countess was expecting him.
Harrietta had departed from the Cavern with nary a glance back at him after he had finally assisted her to her feet.
“Thank you, my lord,” she had said, but he could not read the emotion behind her words. What was she feeling? What was she thinking? Had she been disappointed? Overwhelmed?
But what could he—her husband—possibly say or do? Vale sighed and turned his horse right.
*****
THE SOFA IN THE ANTEROOM to the bed chambers of the Countess D’Alessio had felt particularly unyielding to Vale last night, and he was glad when the morning put an end to his fitful slumber—if he had indeed slept. He studied the dust particles illuminated by what little sunlight had crept through the heavy drapery covering the windows. He wondered what Harrietta would have done had she not discovered the draperies in the spare bedroom. A small smile curled the corners of his mouth. No doubt she would have found a means.
“She must be delightful.”
Vale looked up to see Isabella D’Alessio, looking as radiant as she always did in the morning. Not many women woke up as lovely as they appeared after their toilette, but the Countess, with her striking black hair, wide defined lips, and full dark lashes, wanted very little cosmetic adornments. She was wearing an elegant negligee over an ivory laced nightgown.
“Your pardon?” Vale asked, stretching as he sat up.
Isabella took a seat next to him. “The woman who made you smile ere now.”
“M’dear, there is no woman but you present in my view, and you are indeed a vision worth smiling about.”
After raising her hand to his lips, he reached over and took his waistcoat from the back of the sofa.
“Before I came into your line of sight,” Isabella pursued. “Will you not tell me her name? Or—I am remiss—there are no names at Madame Botreaux’s.”
Vale paused before sliding his feet into his buckled shoes. “I know her name.”
Isabella raised two perfectly arched brows. “How splendid!”
He shook his head, and the Countess frowned in sympathy.
“Ah, she is a married woman then?”
His mouth curled in an ironic smile. “Yes, she is married. Have you rung for breakfast? I am in sore need of a cup of coffee this morning.”
“Yes.”
“Is Miss Trinidad asleep still?” He glanced toward the closed door of her bed chamber.
“My sleeping beauty loathes rising with the sun.”
He made no comment. The Countess and her lover had not gone to sleep for some time. Despite the closed doors, he had heard the two women all too well last night.
“Your nights may be numbered,” Isabella assured him as he worked out the soreness in his neck. “My aunt has of late expressed an interest in returning home. I pray for it nightly that I will no longer have to live under her prying eyes.”
“Worry not, Isabella. A night on your sofa is of no great inconvenience.”
“Or perhaps my father will finally succumb to old age and poor health. I do not think I will miss him much.”
“He is a brute, and I wish him as much pain in his death as he has given to you,” Vale said, remembering how the man had struck her upon hearing rumors that his daughter had a female lover.
She looked at him with large grateful eyes. “You are a good friend, Vale. I would that you find a love as fulfilling as that betwixt Honora and me. If you will forgive my prejudice, I do not think you will happen upon it at Madame Botreaux’s.”
“But I am not in search of it, Countess. I am, after all, a married man,” he reminded her as a servant knocked on the door and entered with the breakfast tray.
“Of course,” Isabella said after the servant had left. “I saw her from across the amphitheatre during the opera. She is charming. I should like to meet her someday, though I suspect she has no interest in meeting me.”
“I would not underestimate Harrietta,” he murmured and proceeded to finish his cup of coffee in two gulps.
Unfortunately, it was weak coffee and Vale felt in need of a second dose when he arrived home and dragged himself up the stairs to his chambers. Harrietta was still in hers.
“Her ladyship has not yet risen,” his valet, Jacobs, informed him upon seeing the direction of his gaze.
“Have the breakfast table set for two then,” Vale told Jacobs.
After a shave and change of clothes, Vale felt much better. Harrietta, however, seemed less than refreshed during breakfast. She seemed to avoid his gaze and asked for the paper but did not seem to read it. He wondered what had kept her from sleeping.
“What diversion has my lady arranged for herself today?” Vale asked after some silence.
“Hm? Oh. I had thought to visit a mantua maker on Ludgate Hill to shorten the hem of a gown I wish to wear to Lord and Lady Granview’s ball,” Harrietta replied. “And I have accepted an invitation from a Mr. Winters to visit a new orphanage for girls that has been erected in the parish of St. Giles.”
“And who is accompanying you? St. Giles is safe neither night nor day.”
“I have Sarah to keep me company.”
Vale was quiet, and from her lifted chin he could tell she was about to protest whatever he meant to say.
“Allow me to keep you company,” he offered.
It was not what she expected to hear. She blinked several times before saying, “If you have the time...”
“I will make the time.”
Vale’s secretary was surprised to hear his employer rearranging his day to accompany his wife to the mantua maker of all things, but the man knew better than to question the Marquess.
The gown of forest green with matching feathered cap became Harrietta, Vale thought to himself as he watched her descend the flight of stairs. She had a sense of elegance that he had not expected from a country girl. He offered his arm. She hesitated, eying it warily, but allowed him to walk her out to the carriage. He wondered if he had been too rash with her where the Elroys were concerned. Harrietta was still young enough to have the desire to rebel against authority—especially those who threatened to impose their will upon her independence.
He wanted to apologize for his harshness, but he could not, nor would not, condone her keeping company with Lovell or Alexandra. She had to simply trust him on that. But he knew he had yet to earn her trust. Indeed, if she were cognizant of all the lies of omission that existed in their marriage, she would be less inclined than ever to trust him.
She had trusted Harold, and Vale wished that she had that same faith in him. He remembered being envious of Harold for having sisters when he himself had no siblings. As he grew older, more than enough men and women, filled that void with ease. But Harold had been the brother he had always longed for.
Harrietta kept her gaze out the carriage window. He described some points of interest that they passed, but their conversation remained tepid. It lacked the abandon that Harrietta exuded on the night of the opera.
At the shop of Mrs. Darling, one of the finest mantua makers in London, Harrietta was obliged to don the gown so that the hem might be measured to its proper length. From his chair, Vale observed one of Mrs. Darling’s assistants pinning the hem of the dress.
“Is that the finest of the dresses you had made?” Vale asked Harrietta as he eyed the modest gown through his quizzing glass.
“Yes. You disapprove?” she asked, attempting to turn around to see herself in the mirror without losing her foothold on the stool she stood upon.
“Lord and Lady Granview’s ball is no small affair. Any number of the royal family may be in attendance.” He turned to Mrs. Darling. “Have you the latest edition of the Ladies’ Magazine?”
“Indeed, your lordship,” Mrs. Darling sniffed, affronted that he should even ask.
Flipping through the fashion plates, he found one he liked. “This one will do.”
Harrietta gasped. “That would be much too extravagant. I would have to be a princess to wear such a gown.”
“You are the Marchioness of Dunnesford. I will not having you dressed as anything less.”
“His lordship has a discerning eye,” Mrs. Darling approved.
Harrietta examined the drawing of the richly decorated gown with eschelle stomacher and embroidered petticoat, pursing her lips in doubt.
“Let us see your finest bolts of satin,” Vale said to Mrs. Darling.
After he had selected a golden peach colored satin and agreed to pay nearly double for the gown to be completed in time for the ball, he ensured she completed the ensemble with the purchase of matching silk covered shoes, embroidered stockings, an ivory handled fan, reticule, and pearl bracelets. Perhaps Harrietta was overwhelmed by the shopping, but he had expected more enthusiasm on her part. All his mistresses had adored it when he bought them things.
From the comfortable establishments of London’s finest purveyors of haberdashery, they turned into a parish with rutted streets and the smell of open sewers. Vale held up a perfumed handkerchief to his nose and marveled that Harrietta could do without one. They reached the Orphan Asylum for Girls, a two storied building in need of much renovation.
A short but stout gentleman—Mr. Winters, Vale presumed—greeted them. “Lady Dunnesford, welcome, welcome! My word, and Lord Dunnesford, is it? You honor us, your lord and ladyship.”
They were ushered into a small parlor to sit down for tea while Mr. Winters described the short history of the asylum.
“As you may be aware there are many efforts to reform those who have strayed from the respectable path,” Mr. Winters told them, “and I mean no disregard for the Society for the Suppression of Vice who have labored to save the souls of many a poor woman, but I firmly believe the best way to thwart a life of misery and prostitution is to nurture them before they grow from girls to women. Many of the foundlings we have here are from mothers who ply that trade, and have a propensity toward that same future if no intervention is provided them.”
The man spoke in earnest and with conviction. After a few more words on his philosophy for the asylum, he offered them a tour. Vale was ready to decline the invitation and simply offer the man a pledge of monetary support, but Harrietta jumped at the idea.
“I should very much like to see the girls,” Harrietta said.
Mr. Winters beamed in return and directed them down a narrow hallway.
“This is the classroom where they learn to read and recite their catechisms,” he informed them proudly. “At present, we have but a few books and they must share with one another. We start promptly at seven o’clock in the morning after they have woken, dressed, and had their breakfast. After their morning lesson, they each have chores: sewing, cleaning, cooking.”
Vale studied the motley assortment of children, who watched him and Harrietta with large curious eyes. Their attire was worn, but they were groomed and, for the most part, not the disheveled ragamuffins he had expected.
They walked outside to a fenced area in the back. Mr. Winters explained, “Here they are allowed to play.”
He left their side to attend to two girls fighting over the only doll. To Vale’s surprise, Harrietta grabbed his arm suddenly.
“Does it not break your heart to see them, knowing they have neither mother nor father?” she whispered.
Instinctively, he covered her hands with one of his own. A little black girl of about seven years of age wandered over to them.
“I picked flowers,” she told them, holding up three stems.
“They’re beautiful,” Harrietta replied, crouching to match eye level with the girl. Vale wondered that she was able to do it with all the hoops and petticoats beneath her skirt. It must have been an awkward stance.
The little girl took one of the stems and handed it to Harrietta, then turned to consider Vale and handed one to him as well. Taking the lead from his wife, Vale also bent down.
“Thank you,” Harrietta said. “Are you sure you want not to keep it for yourself?”
“I have one,” the girl said and showed them the remaining flower that she held.
“What is your name, little one?” Vale asked, noting that the girl had the largest and roundest eyes he had ever seen.
“Mr. Winters said I needing a Christian name and did give me ‘Beatrice’ for my name, but my mama, she called me Adia.”
“Adia. A lovely name for a lovely girl.”
She gave him a half smile, unsure how to respond to the compliment.
“You knew your mother?” Harrietta inquired.
Adia nodded. “She was bought and put on a ship to America, but her owner had no wish to purchase me as I was but a child.”
Mr. Winters returned and offered to show them the room where the girls slept. Vale was glad to straighten his legs.
“Shall I see you again?” Adia asked them.
As Vale deliberated an appropriate response, his wife answered, “Of course! Perhaps you should like to visit our place? If you like flowers, we have many in bloom in our garden at present.”
“Now, now, Beatrice,” Mr. Winters intervened. “Run along and play.”
Adia brightened. “When, my lady?”
Mr. Winters was about to protest more sternly, but Vale put a hand on the man’s shoulder to stop him.
“Harrietta,” Vale said gently, wanting to tell her that the asylum no doubt had protocols in place for their wards, and he himself was unsure that inviting an orphan over for a walk in the Aubrey gardens was what the girl needed.
“How about Sunday?” Harrietta proposed.
“We have services for the girls, albeit very modest, on Sunday mornings,” Mr. Winters explained.
“Ah, then the afternoon? I shall return in a carriage, shall I? Have you ever ridden in a carriage?”
Mr. Winters protested, “My lady is most gracious, but there is no need—”
Harrietta looked sharply at the man, and Vale could tell his wife meant to have her way on this matter.
“Perhaps two o’clock would be a good time?” Vale suggested. “We can discuss at that time what contribution can be made for the asylum.”
At that Mr. Winters’ eyes grew larger than Adia’s. “Absolutely. Any time that is convenient for your lordship. If I may show you the room where the girls spend the night, you will see the roof is in need of repair. When it rains, only half the room is usable.”
Vale smiled at Harrietta over the head of Mr. Winters. The sparkle in her eyes was what he had hoped to see earlier when they were shopping, and he was both proud and thankful to have the means to produce that gleam in her.
His thoughts turned to what he might do with her later that night in the Cavern of Pleasures.