of Stanton did not mean to pursue the matter, then she must. And she would be better off under his guidance than acting on her own.
When he had seen that she would not be swayed, he had shaken his head and given her the address of this place. He had promised that although it was against his better judgment, all would be arranged.
She froze. There was a whisper of air against her bare arms. It seemed to come from behind the draperies on the wall behind her. He was there, watching her.
She turned so that her back was to her supposed observer and touched her own neck, running a finger along the skin, and up to remove the pins from her hair. Then she took up the brush from the dressing table, combing out the curls as though she were preparing for bed.
Her hair was her pride and joy, now that she was back in London. She’d cried when Charles had made her cut it, saying that if she was to follow him to Portugal there would be no time for feminine nonsense. But it had grown back as full and lustrous as it had been before her marriage. She wondered if the man who watched cared for it, or if he thought her foolish as well. She twisted the locks in her hands, spread them and let them fall down her back.
Victoria stared into the mirror again. If she took too much time with her clothes, he would know that she dawdled. She took a deep breath and undid her petticoats, letting them drop to the floor, stepping free of them and taking the time to brush away the wrinkles before hanging them beside her gown. She had not bothered with stays. They hardly seemed necessary, considering what she was likely to do tonight. Now, she wondered if they should have been present as part of the ceremony of undressing, or if he preferred the glimpses of her body through the thin shift she wore. The knowledge of an anonymous watcher and his opinion of her was like a bit of ice drawn slowly over her heated skin, bringing sensitivity wherever it touched.
She sat down upon the bed, ignoring the way the shift’s hem rode high to reveal her legs. She removed her slippers, dropping them on the floor. And then she undid her garters and rolled her stockings down, pointing her toe and flexing her bare legs. She shifted on the mattress until her back was against the wall at the head of the bed and felt the hem creep almost to her waist as she did so. And for the first time that evening, real fear took hold of her. She felt exposed, vulnerable.
Then she banished the feeling with a false smile. She knew what she might have to do, when her quarry entered the room. In comparison, the task of the moment could hardly be considered frightening. She was still alone.
It was not as if, even when alone, she had allowed herself to behave with abandon. It was not proper. But she was in the last place in the world where she would have to concern herself with propriety.
She reached up, tentatively at first, and touched her own breasts through the lawn shift that covered them, shocked at how sensitive they felt. Her nipples tightened in response to the pleasure and the coldness of the room. She closed her eyes to hide herself from her circumstances and cupped her hands under them, pushing them tight to her body so that they almost spilled from the neckline of the shift, enjoying the weight of them.
She let her hands drift lower, to catch the hem of the shift and draw it completely out of the way. She bit her lip as though in desire, and blocked the last of her fear in her mind. Then she let her legs fall open, exposing herself to anyone who might be watching from the hall.
From some hidden place, there was a sharp intake of breath, and the slow hiss as it was released again.
The sound sent a tremor of awareness through her. Was the man on the other side of the curtain the man she sought? Perhaps it was some other stranger. Whoever her audience might be, they were expecting her to continue.
And suddenly, her body trembled again, and she wished it as well. She spread herself with her fingers, and began to play.
Tom Godfrey looked at the woman sitting on the bed and tried to disguise his shock into something within the realm of expectation or eagerness.
The abbess touched his arm, to silently ask if this was the sort of woman he had been looking for.
He placed a hand over hers and nodded. Not only was the chestnut hair just as he had wished, and the eyes bright green, but the shape of the face was the same as well. There was the short nose, the gently rounded cheeks and the small dimple in the chin.
He had not seen her body in the little miniature his captain had carried. But he had imagined it: the pale skin dusted with gold from the sun of Portugal, with long legs, high breasts and a trim waist flaring into soft round hips. His imagination did not do this woman justice.
The madam smiled and nodded, gesturing to the door at her right and pressing a key into his hand. He pressed a coin into hers in return. Then, she retreated.
He stood there for a while, staring into the little window, enjoying the clandestine view it provided. The woman was very like the one he longed for. And with his desire came the faint feeling of guilt.
Though why he should feel guilty about thoughts not expressed, he did not know. It was not as if he had ever bothered Victoria Paget with his opinions of her. He had never even met her. He had not even sent the briefest of condolences, along with her husband’s personal effects, fearing that some stray comment in it would lead her guess to the truth. He had done nothing to be ashamed of.
But while his actions had been blameless, he regretted his uncontrollable thoughts. Captain Paget’s descriptions of his wife’s spirit, and her unfailing loyalty and courage had moved him to envy. The devotion of his own fiancée waiting in London for him had seemed ambivalent in comparison. And then, Paget had shared a glimpse of the little portrait that he had so often admired himself.
Tom had felt the first stirrings of jealousy. Perhaps it was because he doubted that Paget deserved such a wife as the one he’d described. At times, he had spoken of her as he might of a particularly good soldier, and not a woman who was worthy of respect and tenderness. And though the captain had claimed to have a great fondness for her, when the war parted them he had shown no particular desire to be faithful to her in the way he swore she was to him.
Perhaps it was merely covetousness on Tom’s part. He had seen the peace it brought Paget to look on the picture before a battle. And he had wanted some bit of that peace for himself. He had longed for reassurance that someone waited for him and cared for his survival. The few pitiful letters he’d received from his supposed love filled him with doubts about their future. And his fears had been proven true soon after his return to England.
But worst of all, there was lust. He had seen the picture, and wanted the woman in it. When the captain had died, Tom had searched his pockets for it, out of a sudden shameful desire to keep it for his own. That he could have it to gaze on each night, before he slept. And to imagine…
It had repelled him that he could have such thoughts about the widow, with the husband barely cool on the ground before him. So he had bundled the miniature up with the captain’s few personal effects, tucked the lot into his haversack to keep it safe from the soldiers who were looting the battlefield, and sent it back to camp with the next courier.
When he had arrived there on a stretcher almost a month later after another skirmish had shattered his leg and his career, he had wanted to meet with her and to explain the circumstances of her husband’s death. But she was already gone back to London. Disappointment and relief had mingled with the pain of his wound.
Grief was an indulgence not always followed by the women in the camps. Although it was rare in officer’s wives, there were some women who put greater store in being married then they did in the identity of their husband. An unfortunate death
