Lady of Shame Read online

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Why can I not visit Monsieur André in the kitchen, Mama?’

  Claire wanted to bang her head against the surface of the library’s escritoire. It would be far less painful than the reminder of why neither of them could or should visit Monsieur André in the kitchen or anywhere else. It was bad enough in the daytime. But last night when she had finally sunk into her bed, the rest of the night had been a torture of memories. And the reason they had to be torturous no longer made sense.

  ‘You know why you are not permitted to visit the kitchens for a week.’

  Jane, seated on a high stool at the large oak table in the middle of the room, pouted. ‘I said I was sorry for going to the Dower House. I wanted to show baby Crispin the kitten and you were busy. Why are you still angry? Every time I mention Monsieur André, you go red.’

  Red. Surely her face was vermillion, she felt so hot. Heat, followed by the horrid tight feeling beneath her ribcage. Embarrassment at her wantonness. Her knowledge that she wanted to do it again.

  She drew in a deep breath. ‘I am not angry, dearest, I promise you. But you broke your promise not to leave the house without my permission. Your behaviour must be punished. Punishment means being deprived of something one enjoys. I already told you how I feel about your adventure yesterday. Now, please, continue working on your letters as we agreed.’

  The clock on the mantel struck the hour. Heaven help her, it was only three in the afternoon. The day was crawling by, and he still hadn’t responded to her note. Her request to attend her in the library, when he had time.

  And then what would she do? What could she say in front of the child? Her heart raced. She swallowed the lump in her throat. He’d looked so utterly devastated when he’d left her at the carriage last night. Once she had seen Jane was safe with her own eyes, his expression had haunted her thoughts, along with the longings.

  Glorious wonderful longings that would not leave her in peace.

  Last night had been an impulse of the moment. But why should she not have what she wanted as long as she was discreet? Some pleasure, after years of misery with a man who despised her. The future she faced held little more than duty and something inside her needed this. Perhaps it was required to rid her of her attraction. Then she could move on with her life, follow the path she had chosen without regret.

  Whatever it was, she did not have the strength to resist it.

  Anxiously, she folded the note she had penned into tiny squares. She would burn it. No one must ever see the extent of her foolishness.

  Tucking it in her pocket and drawing her shawl close around her shoulders to ward off a sudden chill, she rose and went to look at Jane’s work. The child had diligently copied out the passage from the history book. ‘Very nicely done.’

  ‘Now can I go and play?’

  ‘Yes. In the nursery. Nowhere else.’

  A knock sounded at the door. She would know that sharp firm sound anywhere. He had come. Frozen in place, terrified by the rush of joy, she stared as the door opened.

  André. Looking as he always did in his tall white hat and pristine white linen beneath his dark coats. ‘You wished to see me, Madame Holte? I apologise for not coming sooner. I went to Buxton this morning for supplies and have only just returned.’

  He had not been avoiding her. He’d been busy. With his employment. ‘Everything is ready for dinner this evening, monsieur?’ Her voice wobbled unbearably.

  ‘Yes, madame.’ He frowned in puzzlement, then smiled at Jane. ‘You are well, Mademoiselle Jane?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ The child dipped a little curtsey, as if he was a gentleman, not a chef. ‘Mama says I may not visit you.’

  His gaze flew to her face, hurt in the depths of those dark eyes quickly hidden, but there, nonetheless. She had not intended to hurt him.

  ‘As part of her punishment, Monsieur André,’ she assured him. ‘It is a privilege withdrawn for one week.’

  His expressions eased. ‘I see.’ He bowed to Jane. ‘Then I look forward to next week, mademoiselle.’

  Trembling, she fingered the small square of paper through the folds of her skirts. Dare she? ‘Off to the nursery with you, Jane,’ Claire said. ‘I will be there in a minute.’

  They both watched the child leave and close the door behind her.

  ‘May I be of further assistance, madame?’

  The deep voice did terrible things to her insides. Dare she? Not in a note. It was the height of folly. ‘Come to me tonight,’ she whispered. ‘After midnight.’

  Shock blazed a trail across his face.

  ‘Please. We must talk. About what happened.’

  His faced closed down, becoming impassive. ‘I do not think it wise, madame.’

  Disappointment flooded through her. And the pain of rejection.

  He closed his eyes briefly. ‘But yes, I will come.’ He turned away, jerkily, without his usual grace of movement, as if he, too, was in turmoil. And then he was gone.

  She ran to the fireplace and burned the note. Watched it flare and smoulder until it was nothing but white ash and went to find her daughter.

  * * *

  Twice she changed her gown, finally settling on an undressing robe. So shockingly bold.

  A whisper of a knock on the door before he slid inside, not waiting for permission. Wise man. She certainly did not want anyone to hear, unlikely though it was with the other ladies of the house away and the rest of the servants long since retired.

  He closed the door behind him, but did not stray from the threshold. He stood looking at her, his eyes unreadable in the gloom, his face still, pale and shadowed.

  His hands curled into fists as he waited for her to speak. Did he know he looked ready for battle? But with whom? She had the feeling he was at war with himself.

  Was that how he saw life? As a battle to be won. Or was it just her whom he fought. He seemed too kind to be a warrior, too gentle, but she had seen him with Joe and knew he was not.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you,’ she said. Her voice was barely above a whisper and it shook more than she would have liked. But then he seemed to have that unsettling effect on her. ‘About last night.’

  His jaw flickered. His chest rose and fell a little deeper than before, but it was the only acknowledgement he made of her having spoken.

  Her heart picked up speed. Pounding in her chest as if she had run a mile. Banging against her ribs. She lifted her chin, gazed at his face straight on, refusing to be shamed. ‘I am not sorry.’ She plucked at her skirts. ‘It was wonderful. Beautiful. I would not have you thinking otherwise.’

  ‘Claire,’ he said softly, taking a half-step forward, then halting, his expression a picture of surprise and puzzlement.

  She lifted a hand. ‘I saw your face, before I entered the carriage. And again today. You think it is something we should be ashamed of, no doubt. But I’m not.’

  ‘Claire.’ He closed the distance between them in two long strides. He seized her shoulders in those long-fingered hands of his and gazed into her eyes. ‘Claire. I fear I took advantage of you at your most vulnerable. I thought myself better than that.’

  ‘No. No. I took advantage of you.’ She licked her lips, wondering how to put what was in her heart and in her mind into words that would not make it sound trivial. ‘I do not want you to think you need worry about my saying something.’

  A small half-smile touched his lips. ‘And this is what you called me up here in the middle of the night to tell me?’

  She nodded. ‘In part.’ She swallowed the sudden dryness in her throat. Heat flushed to her face. Scalding. Betraying. ‘All last night I kept seeing that hole in the ice and how I thought she was gone. I didn’t dare close my eyes in case Joe was wrong, in case I had dreamed she had been found. Only when I held her this morning was I sure. And even then…’ She held out her trembling hands. ‘I’m still shaking.’

  He held up a hand with a short laugh. ‘I also tremble.’

  S
he gazed at him, feeling as if she were another person tonight. Someone she barely recognised. ‘I could not bear the idea of being alone tonight.’ She shook her head, averted her face. ‘I want you.’

  For a moment he was still, then his palm came up from her shoulder to cup her cheek and tilt her face upwards. For a moment she resisted the gentle pressure, and for a second moment, she lowered her gaze to his chin, his very beautiful chin, but then something about his tension made her look up into his face.

  His expression was tender and full of raw longing. ‘Chérie,’ he said in little more than a whisper. ‘Darling Claire. Never, ever have I been so tempted.’

  Emboldened, she smiled a tremulous smile

  He gave a short laugh. ‘I find there is an emptiness in me only you can fill, even though it can only be for a short time, an interval, in both our lives.’

  ‘I understand.’ She did. And could not turn away. Because yesterday, for the first time in many years, she had felt treasured. Beloved, if not loved. It had soothed some great gash in her heart and she was not ready to let it go. Not yet. Soon she must marry again, and there would be no grand passion. Why should she not take this last chance to experience joy?

  * * *

  André could not quite believe this was happening. Yes, his heart had lifted when she had issued her invitation. And he’d been able to think of nothing else all day. He was lucky dinner hadn’t been a total disaster he’d been so distracted, but he kept remembering how he’d used her. He’d taken her in what had been little more than an outdoor shed. Treated a woman he respected like a common female of the street. It had sickened him. She deserved so much more.

  And then she’d asked to see him. And he’d admitted his need, when he had never needed anyone. The very idea sent his head spinning like a blow to the temple.

  She stepped around him and stood facing the door. She intended to show him out. Confusion filled him. A trace of anger. He didn’t like to be toyed with.

  She turned the key in the lock. His breath left him in a rush. Anticipation. Understanding.

  She spun around to face him, the naughtiness of a schoolgirl caught out gleaming in her eyes and a shy smile curving her lips. ‘We don’t need any interruptions.’

  The very thought made his blood run cold. An affair with a servant would ruin her completely.

  A servant was lower than a gentleman’s horse.

  ‘This is not a good idea,’ he said.

  Her face paled. The brightness in her expression fled. ‘You don’t want to stay?’

  ‘Yes, I want to stay.’

  The relief on her face was painful to see, as if she had expected him to reject her. He could scarcely believe that, but she wore her feelings on her face like the printed words of a recipe. A recipe for disaster. ‘It is you I worry for.’

  She walked back to him. Her gaze, so open and honest, so clear and direct, spoke volumes. Longing. Hope. Bravery. ‘I am no innocent child who needs protection from herself. I know what I want.’

  The bold words made his heart race, his breathing hitch in his throat.

  She drew in a quick breath and his gaze fell of its own volition to the creamy white skin above the edge of her gown. So smooth. So silken. He wanted to kiss her there. His blood pounded in his veins. He forced himself to look at her face, to make sense of her words.

  ‘I did think my choice should be an informed one,’ she said breathlessly. ‘That it would be a good idea if we got to know each other a little better first.’

  So cautious, his little brown mouse. He wanted to smile, but knew she would take it amiss.

  And she was right. What did she know of him? At the moment, he wasn’t quite sure he recognised himself. He did know he wanted a chance to make up for last night. The chance to bring her true pleasure as she deserved.

  She gestured towards the small sofa beside the hearth, a lovers’ couch, a twisted affair where they would sit separately, but converse face to face. An unusual piece of furniture for a lady’s boudoir. Beside it sat a small table with a decanter of wine glinting ruby in the firelight and two glasses. So they were to be civilised, when what he really wanted to do was kiss her senseless, and remove the shadows from her eyes, as well as her clothes. He wanted to see all of her.

  But he could be civilised. He’d learned the way of it in his youth and if he tried he could remember some of those lessons, though he refused to remember his teachers.

  He took her hand, walked her to her side of the chaise, then settled himself on the other with a smile. She poured him a glass of wine and handed it to him over the sofa back.

  ‘To your health,’ he said, raising his glass.

  ‘And to yours.’

  As toasts went it was pretty innocuous. He sipped his wine and found it a beautiful rich burgundy. The kind of wine he would be proud to serve in his restaurant.

  ‘How did you get Monsieur Lumsden to part with his precious horde of Romanée?’ he asked, savouring the bouquet of blackcurrant and leather on his tongue.

  She smiled. ‘I see you really know do your wines. I asked him for it specifically. I remember it was one of the vintages my father was particularly proud of. How he managed to get it out of France, I do not know.’

  A silence fell. Not uncomfortable, or intimidating, and filled by the crackle of the fire and the faint sound of her rapid breathing. ‘It is a great many years since I engaged in any sort of drawing room flirtation,’ she said on a deprecating laugh. A strained little sound, and breathless with embarrassment. ‘You will excuse me if I am a little rusty.’

  He grinned. ‘Having never engaged in any at all, I have no means of judging.’

  She laughed freely then. Unexpectedly low. A little husky sound at the back of her throat that reminded him of other sounds she had made for him. His groin tightened unexpectedly. He shifted in his seat, looking for easement, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

  ‘I never had much practice,’ she said. ‘My come-out was cut short by my mother’s death. I married shortly afterwards.’

  ‘I am sorry for your loss.’ The words were much too stilted for the loss of a parent, but he hated discussing parents. His or anyone else’s. Tension tightened his shoulders; he felt uncomfortable in his skin. And now the silence dragged on.

  It was a game and neither of them knew the rules.

  André decided to roll the dice. ‘Is there something madame would like to know? Feel free to ask anything at all.’ But not about his parents. That was one story he would never tell.

  ‘Where were you born?’

  ‘In a very small place in the south of France.’ He forced himself to remember the village and not the château. ‘Bordeaux.’

  ‘What made you decide to become a chef?’

  Surprised, he couldn’t speak for a moment. It wasn’t that no one had ever asked him that question, they had. On more than one occasion. He just hadn’t expected a woman of quality to be interested in such a mundane thing as his work.

  ‘It was a good way to make sure I ate well every day.’ His stock answer. It always drew a laugh.

  Not this time. She raised a brow, her head tilting as if she thought he might be jesting at her expense. For some reason he wanted her to understand the heart of the joke.

  ‘I grew up on the streets of Paris. There was never enough to eat. And when I joined the army, there was never enough to eat there either. Then I saw that cooks always ate their fill. It took a while, but I learned to make myself useful, discovering I had a talent. I like to eat, yes, but I like the taste, the texture on the tongue, the scents—warm bread, rosemary, spices from the East. And how they blend together to tease the palate.’

  ‘You are an artist, in other words.’

  She was charming him. Making him feel wonderfully special as if she cared about him, when they both knew this was only about physical satisfaction. That caring touched a deep place inside him that felt raw and ragged. He tried to retreat. ‘Food is hardly art.’

  ‘It is. You
create works of art, just like a painter. You have the same kind of passion.’

  It was as if she understood what drove him. He laughed it off. ‘Except that my art lasts less than an hour before it is demolished.’

  ‘True. But the memory lives on. I can still remember the taste of the pheasant pie you brought me, a perfect blending of flaky pastry, tender meat and delicious sauce and a heavenly aroma that filled the room.’

  He gazed at her in awe. ‘You are an epicurean. Never have I listened to such a mouth-watering description of something so ordinary as pheasant pie.’

  She laughed, as delighted by his compliment as he was by her memories of his food.

  Her face sobered. ‘It must have been difficult for a boy growing up on the streets of Paris.’

  The darkness inside him pushed the door open a crack. The horror of the guillotine glinting as it descended on a neck he had once put his arms around. His father’s. He would never know what had drawn him to the Place de la Révolution that day. The cheers of the crowd. The smell of boiled cabbage and garlic. He’d been as sick as a dog. He slammed the door closed on the memory, because it led to thoughts of his mother. ‘They were difficult days. And long gone. The wars are over and a Bourbon king is back on the throne.’

  ‘Will you go back? To France?’

  ‘Perhaps one day. To visit. I am not sure. My home is in England now. I like it here. There are troubles, yes. But not like France.’

  A little crease formed between her fine eyebrows. ‘You are not tempted to stay here, at Castonbury?’

  He was tempted. But only because of her. And that was illogical. He had a future waiting. And it was not here in the depths of the country. It was not the goal he had spent his whole adult life pursuing. ‘I leave at the end of my contract.’

  ‘Surely my brother would renew your contract?’

  She sounded indignant on his behalf and once more her caring brushed a painful nerve. This was dangerous ground. More dangerous than his presence inside her chamber, and that was practically a hanging offense. Or it would be if she cried foul.