In the Garden of Temptation Read online

  Edgar took in a furious breath and grimaced horribly, grappling with a disappointment so intense he could not speak. “I see,” he said at last.

  Wilma, plainly desiring only escape, sidled toward the door.

  “Wilma.”

  “Yes, milord?” Her voice now trembled uncontrollably.

  “You will speak of this to no one.”

  “Yes, milord, I swear.”

  “You may go.” He waved his hand in dismissal.

  She scurried from the room before his arm fell back to the desk.

  Edgar sat the remainder of the day in morose contemplation, the perennial bottle of spirits at his elbow. As the late afternoon eased into dusk, Willy Gant entered the dim room to light the lamps.

  “My lord?” the servant ventured.

  “Leave it be, Willy. The blackness suits my temperament.” The baron paused before continuing. “We go to town.”

  “Lady Bourgeault confirmed your suspicions?”

  Edgar gave a humorless laugh. “I suppose you could say in a way she did, although it was unintentional.”

  “My lord, I know it’s not my place to question your decision, but do you think this is wise?” Willy spoke tentatively as though he expected his master to make him suffer for having the audacity to speak his mind.

  Edgar merely stared at him.

  Evidently embolden by the baron’s silence, the servant braved on. “Maybe you should give it more time.”

  “More time for what? I can’t wait, Willy. I have to strike while the iron is hot. Romance can cool down as fast as it can heat up. Chances are Ashworth has at least one mistress in town, and he may not want my provincial wife once he sees her in a city setting.”

  “Can’t imagine anyone being indifferent to the mistress, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “Actually, I do mind,” the baron bit out. “Keep a civil tongue in your head.” Edgar couldn’t imagine it either, and that’s what was bothering him.

  “I meant no disrespect,” Willy whined.

  The baron leaned forward, expelling brandy fumes into the dank air. “For God’s sake!” he said. “Shut up and do as I tell you. Go to Bath tonight and return with a dressmaker tomorrow. Ask around—make certain it’s someone who can work quickly. I want to be prepared to leave for London in a fortnight.”

  *****

  “Edgar, why are you doing this?”

  Catherine stared at the dazzling array of material spread about her bedchamber. There were taffetas, satins and silks—not to mention muslins, batistes, crepes and voiles—a myriad of colors and textures on a cloth palette. Soft cambrics and lawns for nightgowns and delicate undergarments were also represented. Lace and furbelows spilled from an oversized hatbox, the hatbox threatening to tumble from its precarious perch on the edge of a rocker.

  The baron, for once in what appeared to be an expansive mood, smiled at his wife indulgently. “Can’t go to London, my dear, without the proper attire. I’ve enlisted the aid of Madame DuBois here, who arrived this morning” he indicated the female next to him, “to help you in making some fashionable choices. I told her to spare no expense.”

  Catherine gaped at her husband. “London, Edgar? We’re to go to London?” Her gaze shifted to the little round woman who stood at his side.

  Madame DuBois stepped out of the baron’s shadow and introduced herself. “My lady, my assistant and I are here to serve you in any way possible. I hope we can make some selections that will give you much pleasure.” The modiste’s voice was thick with French influence.

  Catherine liked the looks of Madame DuBois, and she warmed to the plump dressmaker immediately. “I’m delighted you’ve come, Madame. I’m certain with all this wonderful fabric at our fingertips there is nothing we can’t accomplish.”

  “Then, ladies, I’ll let you get started.” The baron turned to leave. “You have a fortnight to get ready.”

  Catherine stopped him. “Edgar?”

  “Yes, my dear?” he asked blandly, looking at her again.

  “You have no special instructions?”

  He hesitated as he watched her obliquely. “Only that you put yourself totally in Madame’s hands. I want your introduction to the fashionable world to be unforgettable.”

  “Forgive me, but your husband has a most dramatic effect on those he meets,” Madame DuBois stated as the door closed behind the baron.

  Catherine hid a smile as the modiste covertly crossed herself. “True. He’s been known to disconcert more than one unfortunate soul. But come, let’s discuss morning dresses and riding habits and, most of all, glorious ball gowns. I want you to make me beautiful.”

  “The good God above has already completed that task for me.” The dressmaker shook her head sadly. “I feel as though I have been given the task of finding the perfect frame for a Rembrandt. The incomparable art itself is complete.”

  Catherine, overcome with gratitude at the pretty compliment, didn’t care whether the words were sincere or not.

  “You are being kind,” she demurred.

  “You will learn I never say what I do not mean,” Madame Dubois answered briskly. Putting a finger aside her chubby cheek, she cocked her head and studied her new mistress, plainly assessing the possibilities. “Mais oui, it will be a great pleasure to dress you, my lady.”

  And so the two women put their noggins together and, with the aid of the assistant, commenced to create a wardrobe.

  *****

  “Hurry, Edna. We’re getting such a late start.” Catherine bustled up the staircase to her room for one last search to make certain nothing had been forgotten. Looking about the now barren bedroom, she caught sight of her reflection in the full-length mirror standing next to the bed. She was drawn across the room to the image almost against her will.

  Never had she appeared more elegant or felt more beautiful. Garbed in a cerulean blue traveling gown edged in black, her hands and feet were encased in soft kid. A matching poked bonnet, two black ostrich feathers angled jauntily over the brim, rested on her upswept hair. She looked a lady of fashion from the top of her head to the tips of her feet.

  She executed a swift pirouette and watched in the mirror as the skirt belled out around her legs. “I can’t believe it,” she spoke aloud.

  “It is a miracle.”

  Catherine spun around. “Edna, you startled me,” she gasped. “You’ve caught me admiring myself.” She smiled at the maid sheepishly.

  “It’s no more than you deserve, my lady.”

  “Come, let’s not wallow in all this flattery,” Catherine stated as she headed for the door. “We’re off to the city!”

  The old shabby carriage awaited them on the drive, and the coachman Jack leapt from his perch on the box to assist the women into the vehicle. He would be their escort as well as their driver. The baron had gone ahead to London to make the necessary preparations for their arrival. Catherine was relieved by the arrangements, for the thought of endless hours alone with her husband in a closed coach was not to be imagined.

  Jack reentered the box, snapped the reins and with a lurch they were on their way.

  Catherine watched in fascination as the scenery flowed passed her window. Seven years had elapsed since Edgar had spirited her away on her wedding day and brought her halfway across the country to her present home. He had not allowed her to travel after that.

  That’s why this trip seemed so odd. Why did he want her brought to London? The baron was a miser, and yet he had spent an obscene amount of money on a wardrobe. She would have been a fool to believe he had done all this just to please her.

  Other misgivings intruded on her peace despite her effort to keep them at bay. Catherine could not stop her thoughts from touching on the Earl of Ashworth—dwelling more like. Would he be in the city and would she see him?

  For that matter, did she wish to see him? It was a foolish question. Catherine desired nothing more than a few moments in his charismatic company. More to the point was whether or not he w
ould want to see her again. She didn’t think she could bear it if he did not.

  Why he should be unpleasant was not clear. She only knew an overactive imagination made it seem a possibility. Not that his departure weeks earlier had left her with that impression. The earl had seemed truly saddened by their parting. However, the passage of time had taken the edge off her memory, and she was not certain what she believed anymore.

  The hours sped by, and the thrill of adventure lost its glow as the cramped quarters of the ill-sprung coach interfered with her comfort. She was relieved when they finally pulled into the yard of an inn where the baron had reserved a room for the night. With the aid of the driver, Catherine climbed stiff-legged down from the carriage and stretched her atrophied limbs. Edna followed in like discomfort

  “I had no idea inactivity could make one so sore,” the baroness said. “I feel as though I have no blood in my feet.”

  Edna stared at her mistress dully, clearly too tired to respond. They trudged toward the inn entrance, and Catherine gratefully allowed Jack to confirm the arrangements.

  Twenty minutes found Catherine neck deep in a tub of soothing water. “Edna, don’t worry about me. I’m not going to budge from this bath for at least one half hour. Lay out my gown. I can dress myself.”

  The little maid did not argue.

  Catherine ate a scant meal in her room then climbed into bed between the cool, muslin sheets, drawing them to her chin. Now that she had eaten and felt comfortable, she was unable to sleep. Her mind churned with the questions still haunting her.

  Though excited by the prospects before her, she was afraid. She had always wanted to join society but had never dreamed it might actually happen. Would she be accepted? She did have the onerous burden of being attached to the baron, and even far from the center of things she knew that to be a deficit.

  Sleep has of way of persuading even the most resistant mind to give into its demands. Before many more minutes had passed, Catherine fell into a dreamless slumber. Near daybreak a handsome face insinuated itself on her peace, and she woke to another day of uncertainty.

  *****

  “The money I’ve spent to put on a ‘London face’ has been astronomical.” Lord Bourgeault crossed the floor of the refurbished sitting room and leaned his bony frame against the mantle. “I fear I’ve taken this ridiculous farce too far.”

  “Maybe a little taste of society will be a nice change of pace,” Willy ventured, following behind his master.

  “I know you’re going to find this hard to credit,” the baron stated, an ironical twist to his mouth, “but I’m not well received in most quarters.”

  The servant gave the appearance of one trying to look shocked, but his lack of acting ability betrayed him. “I don’t believe it,” he offered weakly.

  “Oh yes, indeed, it’s absolutely true,” the baron mocked.

  The witless servant ceased to speak, and Edgar smiled to himself. Poor Willy—how easy he was to manipulate. The baron continued talking, pretending to be unaware of the effect he had on his hapless companion although little escaped his scrutiny.

  “Fact is, we must move quickly if my wife is to be accepted by those who matter. It’s unfortunate, but I am afraid there will be people who’ll make her suffer due to their dislike of me. I hope Ashworth stands up to that harridan who is his mother or we are doomed before we begin.”

  *****

  The baroness arrived on the stoop outside the townhouse with several trunks and two awestruck servants. “Grosvenor Square, Jack?” Catherine whispered in disbelief. “Are you certain you have it correct? I’ve never been to London and even I know what an exclusive address this is.”

  “Aye, my lady, I swear. It do look fancy, don’t it?”

  As they stood there the front door was thrust wide, and the baron appeared on the step.

  “My love!” he welcomed. “Come in, come in. What do you think of my humble abode?”

  Catherine, taken aback by his effusive reception, stepped into the entry. “I’m flabbergasted, Edgar. How were you able to obtain such wonderful lodging?”

  The baron’s affable mood dissipated at once. “This is not a lease, wife,” he said in an annoyed voice. “I own this property. It was part of my inheritance. Why should that surprise you?”

  “I didn’t mean to offend, Edgar. You never mentioned it before, so I was unaware.”

  Appearing somewhat mollified, the baron allowed as how that might have caused confusion. “Right then, how about a tour?”

  After the starkness of the castle, Catherine was impressed by the refined beauty of the baron’s London townhouse and said as much. Though frankly, she was amazed by her husband’s pride in his city dwelling, for he rarely showed any concern for his surroundings.

  “Of course, there is only so much that can be accomplished in a fortnight,” he explained. “The renovations are only partially complete, but I’ve called a halt to them for now so we might live in relative peace. I think I’ve not done so badly with the time I’ve been allotted.”

  Why, he actually was dangling after a compliment! She sensed a vulnerability in the unasked question, and she was shocked. Her husband never permitted anyone a glimpse of his innermost feelings unless he had a reason. Catherine did not trust him, but on the possibility he was sincere she couldn’t let him down.

  “I think you’ve done wonderfully, Edgar,” she answered, and he beamed with pleasure.

  Later that evening the congenial atmosphere continued during the evening meal. The baron had left his country manners in the country and, though she would not call his execution of the London gentleman a perfect work, he had made a vast improvement on his usual display.

  She had just begun to let her guard down, when the baron’s ever-mercurial disposition took a sudden swing. Catherine glanced up to see him watching her darkly. Something was bothering him, and his mood change was so intense her stomach dropped, making her dinner an indigestible lump in her belly.

  “You look particularly fetching this evening, my dear.”

  That’s not what she had expected him to say. But dressed in a frothy dinner gown of lavender silk and antique gray lace, she did feel especially attractive.

  “Thank you, Edgar,” she said cautiously.

  “Naturally, I much prefer a dress with more lascivious lines. The neck on that gown is so modest one would think you’d just left a nunnery.” His moody stare was unrelieved by even a blink.

  He exaggerated, of course. Her husband was tormenting her, and she wondered why he would want to start a disagreement when things were going along smoothly.

  “Oh, Edgar,” she could not hide the regret in her voice, “what is the purpose in starting a disagreement after such a pleasant day? I’ve almost felt as though we were friends.”

  The baron’s face turned an alarming purple. “Friends?” he bellowed. “Is that what you think we are?”

  Catherine remained outwardly calm, though her stomach continued to contract in anxiety. “No, most often I don’t think we’re friends but I would like to be. Frankly, I don’t know what we are to one another.”

  “I’ve never wanted to be your friend. This damned affliction holds me back from what I really want, and you know it!”

  She felt the blood drain from her face at the bald admission.

  “You were supposed to heal it! I handpicked you for that purpose. I’ve spent a bloody fortune and I’m no better off than I was seven years ago. You’ve been a disappointment, Catherine, make no mistake.”

  “How am I supposed to right something I don’t even understand?” she challenged indignantly. “I did everything you asked of me. Everything. You insist on blaming me for your inadequacies.”

  The baron stood from the table. “God, I hate you!” he said venomously. “I hate you for the needs you arouse in me. And I hate you because I cannot act on those needs. You were supposed to make me better.”

  He sounded like an anguished child in pain, and even in her fear she
pitied him.

  “I don’t want to be here, you know.” He spoke wildly now. “I have no choice and it’s your fault.”

  “Why are we here, Edgar, and why is it my fault?” she delved gently.

  The calm sanity of her words seemed to bring him around, and as quickly as the storm broke it ended. He stared at her as though suddenly aware of the shameful scene he had created.

  “I need to get drunk.” His voice was dull with expended emotion. Without another word or a backward glance, he exited the room. Moments later the front door opened then slammed into place.

  Catherine sat motionless for some time, trying to ascertain what had just happened. “It’s not me you hate, Edgar,” she said to the empty room. “You hate yourself.”

  Too bad, she thought, that her insight could be of no help to either one of them.

  *****

  The Earl of Ashworth discarded another wrinkled neckcloth onto a growing stack of neckcloths and snorted disgustedly. “Damnation, Sims, I’m all thumbs this evening.”

  Sims handed his master one more ironed strip of linen to massacre, his expression never hinting at the surprise he must have felt over his lordship’s inability to perform the simple knot.

  Unfortunately, tonight even simple was too difficult as Adam proceeded to destroy that one as well. He tossed the mangled cloth on the pile of rejects and with a sigh dropped down on the nearest chair.

  “Don’t want to attend that dreary musicale of Lady Mortimer’s, anyway,” he said in self-pity. “Edwina Huffington will probably exercise her vocal cords at the top of her homely voice, and my head will ring for a week. Why do we insist on giving an audience to individuals who have no talent whatsoever?”

  “I really would not know, my lord,” Sims answered blandly. “I gave up trying to understand the machinations of my betters many years ago.”

  Adam glanced at the servant in surprise. “Oh ho, Sims, having a go at me, are you? I believe you are pulling my leg,” he said on a bark of laughter.