She took his hand and squeezed it. “Julian,” she said firmly, “have I not adequately proven I have never met a scandal I wasn’t able to use to my advantage? Have you somehow failed to notice that it’s my greatest talent?” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “If you plan to become infamous, my darling, then you’ve found the perfect woman.”
He was so relieved he laughed. She reached out and rubbed his hair. “Julian, if Henry Evesham learns your secret, I shall simply tell him mine: that I am very blessed to spend my nights beside the finest male courtesan in London.”
He crushed her to his chest. “You, Lady Constance Stonewell, are indeed the perfect woman. Why did I ever doubt it?”
She stepped back, a certain light of mischief in her eyes. “I won’t lie, though, Lord Bore. I am slightly disappointed.”
His anxiety came rushing back. “Why?”
“Well, I have just discovered I’ve been entertaining clandestine visits from one of London’s most talented boudoir entertainers, and yet, for some reason, he has not yet deigned to ravish me.”
He smiled. “Two more nights, and he will devote himself to that pursuit exclusively if you desire.”
“But by then I shall merely be your wife, and I shall never know what it’s like to be your mistress. If you’ve had a chance to be a tart, you wicked man, shouldn’t I get to try it too?”
Constance knew it had not been Julian’s intention to arouse her with his confession, but in all this talk of his secret erotic life, her wedding night seemed very far away.
She ran her fingers over his arm. “Let’s live up to your wicked past before we are dull and virtuous and married. Please. For Mrs. Mountebank. She’d so love to be proven right about us.”
He chuckled ruefully. “Darling girl, it’s very tempting. But we’ll be married in two days.”
She knew he would demur. Somehow, despite years of evidence to the contrary, he seemed to harbor a belief that she was delicate or timid simply because she was inexperienced. It was time to relieve him of that notion once and for all.
“I realize that,” she countered. “But I want you now.”
His shoulders fell and he began to laugh. He smiled up at her. “You have no idea how nice that is to hear.”
He abruptly reached out and lifted her up.
“What are you doing?”
He grinned. “Carrying my newest client to bed.”
“Wait just one minute. I have a surprise for just this occasion.”
He set her down and she dashed into her dressing room, where the dainty gold boxes from Valeria’s boutique were stored. She knew just how to assuage his fears about her. She would put on one of her brazen demimonde gowns and show him she’d been planning to seduce him all along. She was so grateful to Valeria she could kiss her.
That is, until she wrestled the thing on, and caught a glimpse of herself in the looking glass.
After several minutes, Julian tapped at the door. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said, although she really wasn’t sure. This had seemed like such a beguiling idea, but now that she could see her reflection … she didn’t like it. It didn’t feel like her.
“What’s wrong?” Julian asked.
She gritted her teeth. She would not be timid about this.
“Nothing. Close your eyes.”
“Very well.”
She stepped out from behind the door, clenching her jaw. “Voilà.”
He opened his eyes, and they went wide with shock. “Oh my.”
This was no doubt the moment when a proper courtesan would saunter forward and say something appealingly lewd, but her nerves completely failed her. She wanted to duck out the open window.
She tugged anxiously at the gown—what little there was of it—trying to make it cover more of her, fighting the urge to dart directly back behind the door.
Julian smiled. Only not, she suspected, in the way Valeria had intended. He did not regard her like he was staring at a vixen. More like he was staring at an injured lamb.
“What is this?” he asked gently.
The ensemble in which I will die of humiliation!
“A … gown?”
He smiled, a touch of humor in his eyes. “Certainly parts of one.”
She bit her finger in dismay. “Valeria said especially vivid people like this kind of thing? I thought it would be perfect. But actually …” She tugged the lace down, trying to find an angle that did not make her feel like a naughty woodcut.
She missed her convent night rail, with its long sleeves and high neck and comforting yards and yards of fabric. She missed her court dresses the size of castle keeps.
He came and ran his fingers over the lace along her exposed ribs. “I absolutely love it,” he murmured.
“You do?”
“I do,” he said slowly. “But I don’t love that you seem to hate it.”
“You can tell?”
“You are doubled over and scratching at it like you have contracted fleas. Which, if you have, I will have stern words for Shrimpy.”
She giggled, feeling marginally better, if still rather wilted and exposed.
He ran his fingers over the contours of the gown. “Do you know what I like the most about this, Constance?”
“What?”
His fingers followed the trail of lace and landed at the cutouts, grazing against her bare skin. “The bits underneath.”
She reached down to what passed for the hemline of Valeria’s cyprian costume and drew it up over her head. When she dropped the lace and silk to the floor, he smiled and reached out and pulled her with him to the bed.
“You’re perfect just as you are,” he whispered.
“No, I’m quite—”
He clamped a hand over her lips. “Don’t you dare ruin this for me.”
They laughed together in the dark.
“You don’t have to wear a costume to make love, Constance,” he murmured. “Actually, the nice thing about making love is that, if you do it properly, you get to be exactly, exquisitely who you are.”
Exactly exquisitely who you are.
That, she was capable of.
“Well then,” she whispered, running her fingers over his waistcoat. “Perhaps you might dispense with this.”
She trailed her hand down to his breeches, lingering at his groin. “And this.”
He groaned, shrugging off his coat and pulling at the buttons of his waistcoat while she watched, growing impatient.
“Hurry,” she whispered. “I’ve been waiting my whole life.”
He squinted up at her, a lock of hair falling in his eyes, and grinned. “If you are impatient, perhaps you might help undress me.”
She reached up and untied his cravat, revealing his long neck.
“Kiss my throat,” he whispered. She did, rising on her tiptoes to nuzzle him under his ear.
“My shirt,” he whispered, lifting up his arms. She untucked the linen from his breeches and rose up on her tiptoes, drawing it up to reveal a torso just as lean and golden and finely muscled as the statues she’d always imagined he’d resemble.
He pulled the shirt over his head and drew her toward him, so her bare breasts touched his chest. The light dusting of golden hair tickled her nipples in a way that made her want to rub herself against him.