Clandestine Passion (The Lovelocks of London Book 2)

The Marchioness of Painswick entered James’ bedchamber without knocking and was vexed to find it empty. A small fire was banked, embers glowing. A nightshirt was on the bed. But no Lord Daventry.

She thought she had made herself perfectly clear.

She took off her dressing gown and slipped into his bed, naked. She would wait, but damn the useless rogue. She fretted. She cursed. The longer she waited, the angrier she became.

Finally, she got out of bed and put her dressing gown back on. She thought she knew where Lord Daventry was hiding. She was going to find him and give him a piece of her mind, hell hath no fury, et cetera.

She left the room. She searched the drawing rooms downstairs, shivering, but she did not find him drunk in a chair as she had expected.

Of course. That little hussy. She would take great pleasure in bursting in on the coupling and castigating them both. She had heard from her husband that James favored the minx. And the whore had the audacity to come here!

She flung open Mademoiselle DuMornay’s door. It was dark in the room.

“‘Oo’s there?” an East London accent asked. A scared and sleepy female voice. The marchioness stumbled forward and felt the bed blindly. Only a lone woman here, one who batted her hands away.

She had another idea.

But the busty redheaded Mrs. Swinton was not in her room. How strange. Perhaps she slept with her husband. Deviants, the pair of them.

Bang!

James and Catherine both sat bolt upright in the bed.

Bang!

The door to Catherine’s room was being forced open against the chair propped against the door handle. Catherine had a moment to note that the top of the chair was a delicate piece of carved wood and it had not been a good choice as a blockade.

The top of the chair splintered and the door flew open, knocking the chair out of the way.

“You!” screeched the marchioness, beet-red despite the cold.

James sprang off the bed and spoke in a low voice, “My lady, hush and come with me to my room now.”

“No!” Lady Painswick screamed. She pointed at Catherine. “You . . . actress!”

A figure appeared in the doorway next to the marchioness. Isabella DuMornay, wrapped in an embroidered dressing gown. She put her hands on the marchioness’ arms to restrain her but the incensed woman threw her off, cursing.

Other doors were opening in the house. In a matter of minutes, the Swintons, the Marquess of Painswick, and too many servants to count were gathered outside Catherine’s door.

There was no hushing this up. It did not matter that James was fully dressed except his boots, of course. It was unseemly. Quite unseemly.

“I am surprised. I was going to say horrified but that is far too strong a word. Disturbed, perhaps. Yes, that’s it. Disturbed.”

Catherine, hastily dressed, was closeted with Sir Francis, in his study.

“I hope I have always conveyed my respect for you, Mrs. Lovelock. Despite your origins, your years on the stage, you have always seemed a perfect lady. When others said that actresses were no better than whores, I defended you. In fact, . . . well, perhaps I had better not say.”

“Sir Francis, I know that these events appear scandalous. But I want to assure you that nothing improper occurred between me and Lord Daventry in my bedchamber. In fact, it was one of your other guests who came into my room last night, uninvited, to importune me. Lord Daventry was only there to assist me in removing the scoundrel.”

“And this scoundrel was . . . ?”

“I’m sure you can guess that it was Mr. Siddons.”

“Ah, yes, Roger. You were his mistress, before your marriage, were you not? It seems hard to believe you would reject him now when you had spent so much time in his bed previously.”

“Sir Francis, like many others—indeed, like many men—I was a fool when I was young. I wasted myself on someone undeserving. But because I am a woman, there is some conception that I cannot learn from my mistakes, as if I am the proverbial dog that returns to his vomit. Mr. Siddons may well be vomit, but I am no dog.”

“Bitch!” Roger Siddons stood from a wing chair facing the window, where he had been hidden from her sight. She was pleased to see he held his bandaged finger at an awkward angle.

She turned back to Sir Francis. “My apologies, Sir Francis. Apparently, Mr. Siddons thinks I am a dog. And I was not aware that we were not alone.”

“Mr. Siddons is the one who brought me the news that you and Lord Daventry had been found in your room together.”

“I am sure he was happy to be the messenger.”

“You’ll get yours, Cath.” Behind Ffoulkes’ back, Siddons made a vulgar gesture for rutting.

Catherine felt the bile rise in her throat.

Sir Francis intervened. “I think you had better leave this room, Roger. You’ve done your part.” Siddons slammed out of the study.

“Now, my dear,” Sir Francis said, and put a hand under her chin and raised her face. “I see you are quite repentant.”

Catherine did not feel repentant, not a bit.

Sir Francis went on, “Of course, Lord Daventry’s reputation is well known. I am sure you are only partly and not wholly to blame. At first, I thought that I should send you away. But, if you promise to amend your ways, perhaps we might remain friends.”

“Friends, Sir Francis?” Catherine felt an overwhelming, suffocating panic. He was going to abandon her.

She would be alone.

She would not be able to govern herself.

She would run mad and destroy her daughters’ lives.

Deep breath, control the quaver in your voice. “I thought we perhaps might be more than that.”

“Certainly. I don’t think it is a secret that I have long looked on you with admiration. In fact, as you know, I had hoped to make you my wife.”

“And now?”

“I still hope for that.”

He leaned down and kissed her.

It was brief, a mere pressing of his lips to hers.

She felt empty. And that pleased her. Better to be empty than to be erupting with desire and emotion.

And the emptiness somehow gave her the strength to make a request. “I have a condition to our marriage.”

“What is that, dearest?”

“That you do indeed buy that painting from Mr. Siddons and destroy it immediately.”

Was it her imagination or did he hesitate before he answered?

“Certainly, certainly, I will see it done.” He frowned. “But we should marry quickly. I do not want this scandal to spread too broadly before . . . well, no matter. We will pack and make for Gretna Green, immediately.”

“Gretna Green? There is no need for that. Clearly, we are both of age, Sir Francis.”

“Yes, but the banns, we can’t wait for the banns. Three weeks. Even an ordinary license requires seven days. And, as you know, a baronet cannot usually get a special license.”

“You’ve thought this through, I see,” she said slowly.

“Well, we must hush up your impropriety with our marriage. If we marry, people will think there is nothing to the scandal, otherwise I would not have married you. You see?”

Catherine did not see, but in her exhausted state, sensing an impending cataclysm of some kind within herself, she would allow herself to be swept away by the sudden force of Sir Francis’ wishes. She had joined the house party, intending to agree to the marriage, hadn’t she?

And she did not want scandal. A scandal would hurt her darling Arabella who had not yet made a match. She would not want Arabella punished because James had slept at the foot of her bed. Punished because her mother had a past that would not bear investigation. Because her mother was wicked.

Catherine had been controlling so much, for so long. It was time to cede all that. She was tired and near drowning. Let her be towed along by the protection of Sir Francis, out of the whirl of the maelstrom that her lust demon left in its wake.

She would get Wright to pack some of her things.

She would go to Scotland and be married, quickly.

And she would be rid of that loathsome painting and that time in her life.

Forever.