All the Secret Pleasures [I Love Rogues Anthology] Read online

  As well he knew.

  He had been waiting for this moment. He hadn't planned to have it happen yet. No matter how he tried to avoid it, there was no getting away from it: he needed a wife, he needed heirs, and now that Corinna Woodholme was finally back in London, it was time to put his plans into action.

  It was time. He was tired of waiting, tired of flirting and kowtowing to whims of the missish mermaids who floated around, throwing out lures, waiting to be caught.

  No. This was the year, it was time to cut the chaff from the chase. He didn't need to do much to accomplish that, either. He just let it be known to the very same friend who had brought him the news of Corinna's return, that he was a serious man who seriously wanted to set up his nursery, and this season, he was seriously in search of a wife.

  Which he had timed perfectly to coincide with Corinna's return. The news would most certainly bring the old story of his proposal to her to the attention of the gossipmongers once again.

  Perfect.

  Though he wondered how many even knew of the abortive match that had been agreed upon between his father and Corinna's. It was such a long-ago little Cheltenham tragedy, and he had gotten well over it after Corinna's defection with her worldly old earl.

  But those things rose up like bubbles in a cauldron. He wouldn't need to do anything: everyone would most assuredly keep him well apprised of Corinna's comings and goings. In fact, he was counting on it.

  So whatever the wealthy wily Lady Corinna was up to, he was not in the least worried. The word would get to her soon enough that he was busy looking for a wife.

  "And so here we are," Fanny said brightly as they were helped from the carriage at the Apperson's door. "You look lovely, not in the least widowish, but not disrespectful either. That dove gray color is perfect, and the touches of lavender are deliciously subtle and just right. Come, Corinna, you should not be in the least nervous."

  "I'm not nervous," Corinna said, "just wondering how I shall be received."

  "Like family, I'm certain—these are Woodholme's friends; they cannot be other than delighted to have you here tonight, if they went to all the trouble to invite you. And anyone else's feelings are of no moment."

  But they had been dining out on stories about her for the last few years, Corinna thought mordantly. She wondered what they expected, how they thought she would look and how they expected her to behave for someone who had been living rather loosely on the Continent all this time.

  She had forgotten how constrained English society was, how many rules had to be observed, how much formality there was, while behind the curtains everyone flirted and played.

  But then perhaps that was a good thing, the thing that weeded out the poseurs from the possibles.

  It was just a little dinner, after all. There wouldn't be too many people, and her hosts would slide her into the assemblage in the wink of an eye and she would feel right at home again.

  She handed the majordomo her gray fur-lined pelisse and walked into the parlor as the butler announced her name.

  Conversation stopped. Everyone turned to look at her, stopped in mid-motion like players in a tableau. The silence beat in her ears like a drum. A dirge. Boom, boom, boom, and then suddenly, Lady Apperson came forward, her hands outstretched—"Corinna, my dear, oh, you look so beautiful tonight, come in, come in…" and suddenly the room went into motion again, several people crowded around, people whom, perhaps, she had known before she married Woodholme, some of them his friends, and so changed in the ensuing years, of course she wouldn't recognize them.

  And a few with whom she wanted to become reacquainted again in this new phase of her life, and so she greeted them all warmly, requested their names, and thus so easily was pulled into the conversation in the parlor and back into the niceties of the social life of London.

  There were perhaps ten or a dozen people there, a slightly larger party than she had envisioned, but she had no trouble at all summoning up conversation and answering the well-meant questions as to the state of her health, and her feelings about returning to England.

  After twenty minutes of this, she made her way to the tiring room to wash her face and have Fanny tuck in her hair.

  "Such a lovely party," Fanny murmured. "Such an elegant house. And how do you feel?"

  "Strange," Corinna said. "I know this, and yet I know it not. It will take some getting used to, and I have found already it is a good thing to keep your own counsel on a number of inflammatory subjects, and just nod and smile sweetly when addressed. As any well-bred, simple-minded woman should."

  She stood up and surveyed herself in the mirror. "Thank you, Fanny. That will do nicely. I hope they will serve dinner soon. I am quite hungry."

  She pulled aside the curtain into the foyer, and stopped still. There, his back to her, was a very tall gentleman dressed in the most austere black, who had just handed off his cape to the majordomo.

  Her heart started racing. Broad shoulders, dark well-kept hair. Clothes that looked molded to his body. She recognized the cut of the clothes, the elegance of the fit. And the highly polished boots. And, thank heaven, he had an excellent leg.

  Here was someone elegant, rich, virile… she bit her lip. She wasn't ready, she wasn't, and here he came, walking into her life, into a reception room, as if she had conjured him there.

  Her next conquest. . . the next man in her life—the thought made her catch her breath, and washed her body with a telling heat. She knew that feeling, she had missed it, she craved itωso much, she almost swooned.

  She pressed back against the curtains just to watch him, pleased with the grace of his movements, his posture, the precise and kind way he spoke to the servants.

  She still couldn't quite see his face. She didn't want to. Just for the moment, he was her anonymous lover, perfect in every way.

  The butler led him to the parlor.

  She heard a flurry of footsteps, Lady Apperson's voice too far away to make out the words, then she saw him disappear into the parlor. Heard murmurings of welcome.

  If she just stayed where she was, she didn't have to know anything more about him. He would remain forever the incomparable, the model, the ideal. He didn't have to kiss her or touch her for her to know: he was the most sublime man she would ever know—peerless and ever superb.

  "Corinna?"

  Dear Fanny. "Yes, dear."

  "They've announced dinner."

  "Of course." She stepped into the hallway, torn between wanting to see the stranger wholly and fully, and wanting to just leave him to her fantasies and go straight home.

  Fanny pushed her gently toward the parlor.

  Everyone had risen and they were waiting on her. She stood framed in the doorway, a vision in lavender and dove gray, strong and beautiful, as radiant and feminine as the sun.

  "Ah, there you are, my dear," Lady Apperson cooed. "We're just going in to dinner and here comes your knight errant—you remember Simon Charlesworth, do you not? Were you not neighbors not so long ago? Here he is—he will escort you to dinner."

  Simon… the man in the hallway—

  The earth shifted—or maybe it was the floor beneath her feet—as Simon walked toward her with that lion grace of his, bowed, and offered his arm, all without a word.

  But he didn't need to say a thing. It was all in his dark sparking eyes. He hadn't nearly forgotten her. He wouldn't have forgotten anything.

  He held her chair and she sat, murmuring a polite thank you. And became suddenly aware that everyone was covertly watching them.

  Lady Apperson's dining room with its golden hangings and heavy mahogany furniture suddenly became suffocating; between the smoke from the candles, and the smoke in Simon's gaze, Corinna felt as if she were in a boxing ring and going down for the count.

  This was a moment to be chewed over after this party, when all present would venture their opinion to anyone with half an ear who had even a remote interest in her or Simon's affairs.

  And that would be every
one, she calculated swiftly. She felt it in the air, even as they bent to begin the first course. They were all watching, listening, speculating.

  She could imagine them the next day. Did you hear? Simon Charlesworth and Corinna Woodholme at the same dinner party and she barely spoke five words. Imagine. After all this time. Still disdaining him. You would think… but then, I wonder if she knows…

  Now her imagination was going haywire. What ought she know about Simon? He was quite striking now, really elegant and refined. Dressed expensively and well, and still had that dangerous look in his eye, the same one as when she had refused to marry him all those years ago.

  She picked up her soup spoon. This was infernally awkward; Lady Apperson ought to have known better. She slanted a look at Simon to find him staring at her.

  And everyone else avidly watching them.

  Now what? Would he not even talk to her to give the gloss of civility to whatever it was thought their relationship had been?

  Well, if he wouldn't, she would. She felt a tearing irritation with the whole situation. It was just Simon, after all, and not the dashing knight of her dreams that she fantasized in the foyer.

  And she knew him too well to harbor any idea of taking him as a lover.

  She put down her spoon emphatically. "So tell me about your life these five years past, Simon."

  He tipped his spoon at her. "Very good, Corinna. Excellent polish." He looked around at all the eager faces, cocked an eyebrow, and everyone busily went back to eating.

  "But there is nothing to tell," he said smoothly. "My father passed on, I took over the estates and by dint of some luck and sheer hard work, I have made the family situation what it should always have been, and now I am seeking a wife."

  The little buzz of conversation stopped dead, as if everyone had had one ear trained on their interchange.

  She felt a jolt at the words. Seeking a wife. I am… well, of course—why should she feel any shock about the matter? He was a perfect and finely turned out gentleman, with better resources than previously, his family honor and wealth restored, if she read him aright, and of course he would want… a wife.

  What man didn't want a wife?

  "A wife," she said faintly in response to that neatly encapsulated summary of five years of a life lived on the knife edge of ruin. "I see."

  What woman didn't want a husband?

  Well—she didn't, for one, but that was no reason he ought not seek a wife…

  She picked up the spoon, shocked to find her hand was trembling.

  "It's time," he said. "Time to think about my legacy and my heirs, and a companion to share my life."

  They sipped the soup for a moment.

  "I would suppose," Simon continued, "that after five years, and what was by all accounts a most successful marriage, you too would be thinking in that direction, my lady."

  Every ear pricked up.

  "I am thinking of nothing more than how delicious is the soup," Corinna said tartly. And to Lady Apperson, "most excellent soup, ma'am."

  "A family recipe," Lady Apperson murmured, keeping the comment brief in the hope that she and Simon would resume their shuttlecock conversation and they could all listen.

  "Well, a marriage is very much like a soup," Simon said, stirring his portion thoughtfully. "Many ingredients stewed to a fine boil that cooks to your taste and cools down enough to savor over time. An apt comparison, would you not say, Corinna?"

  "Unless it be overcooked, undercooked, too salty, spicy, watery or too tasteless altogether," she retorted without thinking.

  The guests' eyes lit up with glee.

  "Well, of course. It does take a prudent hand to control all the elements of a perfect soup," Simon said, his voice suspiciously bland. "To know when to bring it to the boil, and when to let it simmer, when to use a little spice and when to leave things alone."

  "Indeed, Simon—a woman's hand…"

  "Oh, do you think so, my lady? Now I would have said a man's hand…"

  "… which does not rock the cradle nor cook the soup," Corinna said sweetly. "So we all know to whom a well seasoned, nourishing and savory soup is to be credited."

  "And likewise, a marriage?" Simon asked politely.

  "My dear Simon—he who seeks a wife surely needs no recipes from me."

  "No, just your fine hand stirring up the pot, as usual," he muttered.

  A dark silence fell. The servants unobtrusively removed the soup course. The gentlemen sipped their wine. Lady Apperson looked around the table and then directed her bright, heightened gaze at Simon.

  "So tell us, Simon—what is this new permutation about a wife?"

  He shrugged. "I've had enough of the sport and play. It is time."

  "To make soup?" Lady Apperson asked archly.

  "To make babies," he said bluntly.

  Corinna choked… make… Instantly she saw it, Simon in bed with some simpering young thing, making babies. This Simon in bed, not the Simon she had known, the dangerous and provoking man she didn't know, the one who was exciting her far beyond what she wanted to feel for him or any man.

  The problem was, she knew him better than most, and she could see that some things, under the veneer of elegance and polish, had not changed.

  But still—making babies…

  Lady Apperson bit her lip. "Perfectly understandable," she said with a straight face. "One must ever be vigilant about making babies."

  "Exactly. And there comes a time a man must… do what a man was meant to do," Simon said, taking the thought and running away with it. "And so, I'm fully prepared to…"

  "Indeed," Lady Apperson interpolated. "I think we have the whole picture, Simon. Ah, here is the second course…"

  And with the fish course, the conversation veered pointedly away from babies and the mechanics thereof. For which Corinna was inordinately grateful. Not that anyone didn't want to hear more or wouldn't be gossiping about it five minutes after they returned home.

  But for the moment, the talk was intermittent, placid, and centered on politics and the theater, and she needed do nothing else but concentrate on the excellent dinner, and Simon beside her, raising a shuddering excitement in her breast.

  Curiously, in the course of conversation, he did not ask to extend the acquaintance.

  She found herself not a little piqued by that. Simon was, after all, her childhood playmate, the one to whom she was closer than close when growing up, and someone who had done her the honor of wanting to marry her.

  She had never borne him any ill feeling, and she would have thought he would be happy to see her back in England at last. As she would him. As she was happy to see him, broad shoulders, expensive clothes, excellent leg and all.

  Dear Lord, when had he become so dangerously enticing?

  But that didn't matter; she knew him too well, and for far too long, and could not consider him anything but an old friend.

  Didn't want to. Reluctantly went with the ladies into the parlor as the men poured their brandy. Looked over her shoulder to see him lifting his snifter, making a comment to Lord Apperson, utterly oblivious to her hot seeking gaze, ignoring her utterly as if he didn't even know her.

  She hated him.

  She wanted him.

  Simon???

  No. She wanted him to want her still.

  She couldn't stop thinking about him as Lady Apperson led the genteel discussion of whether hostilities would affect fashion, and what exactly was the mode in Paris these days?

  She was forced to speak then, because she was the exotic creature from the Continent and had all those details at her fingertips, but all she wanted to do was ruminate on why Simon would not want to call on her.

  Even if he were seeking a wife, that had nothing to do with anything.

  She couldn't stop thinking about it, about him. About the moment she first saw him in the foyer, when she hadn't known who he was.

  Incomparable, she had thought him. The perfect, unknown lover.

  And
he turned out to be the person she knew best of all. He must come to call on her, he must.

  And yet, how could she broach such a thing without seeming forward, bold, Continental… ?

  Lady Apperson saved her the trouble. "My dear Corinna," she said as the majordomo was handing everyone his coat at leave-taking, "you are receiving, are you not, now you've opened the house at Regent's Park?"

  "Indeed I am," she answered gratefully, "and would be happy indeed to greet old friends—" she slanted a look at Simon, "—and new—in the afternoon. Do come visit soon, Lady Apperson, and let me reciprocate for this lovely dinner."

  "Delighted," Lady Apperson said. "There you go. Here's your carriage. Fanny is waiting."

  Corinna pulled her cape tightly around her shoulders. She had done all she could reasonably do. She stepped out into the cold starry night air, which suddenly seemed fresh, sharp, and tinglingly alive with possibilities.

  Chapter Three

  "I've never seen the like of it," Lady Apperson said in a confidential tone as she settled in to take tea with Corinna late one afternoon a week later. "How determined is our Simon. My dear—everyone is talking about it. Elusive has now become obtainable—Simon truly means it. He will have a wife by the end of this very season."

  "So of course he has not a moment for an old friend," Corinna murmured. "I had wondered but here we have the explanation… he is that busy, chasing after the idea of a wife."

  Lady Apperson eyed Corinna over the rim of her cup. "When a man decides, Corinna, he cannot make it happen quickly enough. Did not the earl snap you up the moment he—?" She stopped abruptly. "I'm so sorry, my dear; I didn't mean to bring up Woodholme's memory. It is far more amusing to gossip about Simon. Let us just say the word has gotten out about his intentions…"

  Exactly, Corinna thought caustically, the word, flailed to a froth by the guests at the dinner party… so much that did Simon find success, Lady Apperson might well take some of the credit.

  But that was uncharitable of her. She herself had not been out since the Apperson's dinner party; she had had an ample number of callers who had taken Lady Apperson's lead, but not a word from Simon. Not a note, not an overture, not an apology for his cavalier treatment of her…