Scandalous Lovers
By ROBIN SCHONE
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
Copyright © 2007
Robin Schone
All right reserved.
ISBN: 1-57566-699-5
Chapter One
He saw through the eyes of a woman.
The five-globe gas chandelier. The twenty-foot-long mahogany
table.
The twelve members of the Men and Women's Club.
Doctor. Banker. Publicist. Teacher. Student. Professor. Suffragette.
Architect. Philanthropist. Journalist. Accountant....
Unerringly he focused on the barrister who sat at the head of the
conference table.
Silver frosted the crisp chestnut hair at his temples; uncompromising
lines radiated outward from cold hazel eyes.
The truth forcibly struck him.
During twenty-four years of marriage, his wife had been the perfect
hostess and mother. And then she had died.
Alone.
Pinned underneath the wheels of a carriage.
He had not known the woman who bore his name, and who had
borne his two children. He had not known her fears, her dreams, her
needs.
Staring at the man with the silver-frosted hair and the cold hazel
eyes, he realized that
this was the man she had seen over breakfast
each morning: she had seen a stranger. James Whitcox. Husband.
Father. Barrister,
Queen's Counsel.
Recognition erupted into an explosion of sound. The mahogany
door slamming into a burgundy-papered wall snapped James back
into his own masculine perspective.
The woman whose pale green eyes he had for one infinitesimal
moment stared through stood frozen in the doorway, hand extended
to recapture the brass doorknob that had escaped it. Her face beneath
a round straw hat was gently marked by maturity. Vibrant red
hair framed her temples. Her green-checkered velvet coat with
matching walking skirt and green silk polonaise were unapologetically
feminine.
She was a woman who did not hide from her sexuality. Clearly
she did not belong to the Men and Women's Club.
The squeak of a chair sliced through the quiver of vibrating
wood. Even as he watched, the mahogany door rebounded off the
wall.
She had a small hand. It was covered in a tan, kid-leather glove.
Any second now that hand would grasp the doorknob, and the
woman would walk away. A stranger. As his wife had been a stranger.
And he would never know....
James snared her gaze. "What does a woman desire?"
The harsh words ricocheted off the gas chandelier.
His voice was not that of the gentleman he had been raised to be:
in public; in court; in bed. It was the voice of a man: commanding;
demanding.
The chagrin in the woman's eyes blossomed into surprise. At the
same time, her gloved hand wrapped around the brass doorknob. "I
beg your pardon?"
Her voice was clear, the clip of gentility softened by a faint country
dialect.
She wasn't from London.
Her origins were of no consequence. James didn't want a socialite's
pardon: he wanted a woman's honesty.
"Does a woman desire the touch of a man?"
His wife had in the past spoken of the latest
on dits, charitable activities,
and of their children. The members of the Men and
Women's Club had in past meetings discussed the biology, the history,
the philosophy, and the sociology of sex. Not once had they acknowledged
the existence of simple human need.
But James did need. Did this woman?
He raked her face with prosecutorial eyes. "Does a woman desire
to touch a man?"
Shock stunned the members of the Men and Women's Club-men
and women who had yet to understand the difference between
sexology and sexuality.
"Are women repulsed by a man's sex?"
Passing carriage wheels shrilled. The faint blare of a German
polka wafted up from the street below.
Inside the burgundy-papered meeting room, the silence was absolute.
"Exactly what is it," James pressed, "that a woman desires from a
man?"
Something flickered inside her eyes-something James had
never before seen.
"Pray accept our apologies, madam"-masculine censure shuttered
her face-"on behalf of Mr. Whitcox. We are in a private meeting,
as you see. If I may direct you...."
Immediately her gaze skittered away from James and found
Joseph Manning, founder and president of the Men and Women's
Club.
She opened her mouth-
To accept the apology on James's behalf, perhaps. Or to ask directions
to the room she had all along intended to visit, a museum exhibition
where men would not inflict unwanted masculine needs
upon her.
"Pray accept
my apologies, madam," James ruthlessly intercepted,
"on behalf of Mr. Manning. He forgets that the purpose of
the Men and Women's Club is to discuss sexual relations."
The woman's gaze snapped back to his.
"Doctor Burns"-James indicated the woman who sat to his left
with a short thrust of his head-"is a firm believer in Darwin's theory
of sexual selection; whereas, Mr. Addimore"-he indicated the
accountant who sat to his right-"is more interested in Malthus's
thesis for population control. Mrs. Clarring"-he indicated the philanthropist
who sat on the right side of the accountant-"is an expert
on erotic composition in still-life paintings."
"Mr. Whitcox, this is highly irregular-"
"If you had not interrupted when you had," James ignored the
publicist's sharp reprimand; she was a beautiful woman, but her
beauty did not touch him, "I would even now be delivering a lecture
on English law and divorce. Are you interested in English law
and divorce?"
The woman's small, gloved hand clenched. "No, thank you-"
"Are you interested in Mr. Darwin's theory of sexual selection?"
"I'm not familiar with Mr. Darwin's theories." Dark rose tinted
her cheeks. "I really must-"
Go.
But James couldn't let her go-not until he knew whether that
brief flicker inside her eyes had been a result of feminine need and
not the effect of flickering gaslight.
"Are you interested in erotic art?"
He knew her answer before she opened her mouth-the only answer
any respectable woman could rightfully claim.
"I have never seen any works of erotic art-"
"Would you like to?"
The woman's head snapped back. Simultaneously, a volley of
"Mr. Whitcox!" rang out.
"Miss Palmer." James turned to the thin, anemic teacher who underlined
flowery prose in archaic French novels and labeled them erotic
metaphors. "Have you ever seen a French postcard?"
Her pinched nostrils turned purple. "Sir!"
James glanced one by one at the men and women who sat stiffly
upright, ten in medallion-backed armchairs, the journalist in a lattice-backed
wheelchair. He had investigated each member before joining
their circle of five bachelors, five spinsters, and one wife whose
husband preferred the oblivion of alcohol over the comfort of feminine
arms.
"We have discussed sexual symbolism in art"-his gaze slid past
the young men in their dark, tailored wool suits that resembled his
own, lingered on the young women in their conservative dresses and
dark bonnets-"but how many of you ladies have ever seen a painting
or photograph whose sole purpose is to arouse and titillate?"
Angry red blotching their faces, the women gazed past James's
shoulder ... or at the notes on English law and divorce neatly
stacked by his left hand ... or at the mahogany table ... anywhere
but into his eyes.
They knew how to respond to a sexless gentleman. They did not
know how to respond to a sexual man.
"We are here to discuss sexology, sir," Jane Fredericks curtly rallied;
the white feather in her black bonnet pointed to the ceiling
like a signpost to heaven, "not pornography."
He studied the twenty-seven-year-old suffragette who idolized
Josephine Butler, a clergyman's wife who had successfully campaigned
to repeal the Contagious Diseases Acts on the basis that it
enabled men to enjoy sex without suffering. Not once in the seven
months that James had been a member of the Men and Women's
Club had he seen inside her eyes a spark of warmth, of need, of curiosity.
"Have you never wanted to see what it is that excites a man, Miss
Fredericks?" he dispassionately queried.
Frigid green eyes stared at the wall behind him. "No."
She believed her lie.
Seven months earlier James, too, would have believed it.
He sought out the woman with the pale green eyes. "What of
you, madam? Do you desire to see a French postcard?" James remembered
the gold with which he had paid his mistresses, and the
jewelry with which he had gifted his wife. Compensations, both, for
enduring his touch. "Or do you think that women are naturally repulsed
by objects that incite lust in a man?"
Red-gold lashes shadowed her cheeks. She had elegant cheekbones.
Her gaze seared James's left hand. She stared at his wedding
band, a badge of respectability.
Marriage had paved the way to political appointments.
What had marriage brought his wife? he wondered. Social position?
Daughter of the First Lord of the Treasury, she had possessed
a privileged place in society before marrying James.
What had marriage brought to the fashionably dressed woman
who now stared at the lie that circled his finger? She shone with the
confidence of knowing a man's protection, but did she enjoy satisfying
a man's desire?
"I suggest, sir," the woman said finally, calmly; eyelashes slowly
rising, her gaze pinned his, "that your wife would best be able to answer
your questions."
Straw hat screening her face, she stepped back.
"My wife is dead."
The words ripped through the chill spring air.
She paused, head snapping upward.
James's gaze was waiting for hers. "I will never know which of my
touches excited her, or which ones repulsed her. I will never know
how I failed her, or even
if I failed her. I will never know what she
needed, because I never asked."
"Why not?"
The rejoinder was swift. The woman's body remained poised for
flight.
"Because I was afraid," James said.
Feminine gasps greeted his admission: a man could do or say
many things as long as he didn't admit fear.
"I am still afraid."
A masculine protest overrode the feminine gasps. "I say, there-"
James ignored the accountant's objection.
"I am forty-seven years old, and I have never experienced a
woman's passion."
"Mr. Whitcox, sir!" the suffragette sputtered over the hiss of the
gas chandelier.
"I need to know that it's not too late."
The woman with the vivid red hair remained motionless, her expression
arrested.
"I need to know that men and women share the same needs."
A shudder vibrated the wooden table; a door slamming below.
"I need to know that there can be honesty between men and
women."
A short, urgent shout sounded from the street outside.
The solitude that dogged his every waking moment stretched out
before James. "I need to know that a man and a woman can live in
the same house, and lie in the same bed, and be more than two
strangers."
Low murmurs bounced around the mahogany table, feminine
whispers recoiling off of masculine rumbles: "I
never-" "-does
he-" "-not himself-" "-grief-"
"Mr. Whitcox, really, sir," Joseph Manning cut through the jumbled
voices, "there's no need for this melodrama."
"I am being honest, Mr. Manning," James riposted, every fiber in
his body concentrated on the woman who stood on the threshold.
"Are you offended by honesty, madam?"
He had no difficulty reading what lurked inside her eyes: uncertainty.
"I try not to be."
"Are you frightened by your sexuality, or is it a man's sexuality
that frightens you?"
"Sir, I cannot answer for all women."
"I don't expect you to answer for all women."
He only wanted her to answer for herself, one woman to one man.
"I'm not certain what it is that you're asking," she evaded.
James leaned forward, daring her to be a woman of flesh and
blood, and not a paragon of feminine virtue. "I am asking if you
want to be touched by a man."
Crackling paper underscored his challenge.
"I am asking if you are repelled by the thought of a man who
needs the touch of a woman."
Her pupils dilated, darkness swallowing light.
James did not relent. "I am asking if you lie awake at night aching
for the satisfaction that men are told respectable women do not desire."
Desire reverberated inside the room.
Sighing wool slid over squeaking leather. Six women leaned forward,
waiting to hear a member of their sex acknowledge what they
themselves were afraid to admit.
"I do not indiscriminately desire a man's touch"-the gently accented
voice was quiet, resolute; the woman's chin firmed-"but
yes, I do desire to be touched."
Emotion squeezed his chest. James recognized it as hope.
"Do you desire to touch a man?" he asked. "To give pleasure, as
well as to receive it?"
The wooden table groaned as five men leaned forward to better
hear her answer.
She took a deep breath, green-checkered coat rising and falling
over her full breasts. "I do not believe that all men want to be given
pleasure."
It was not the answer James had expected.
The question she had earlier asked shot out of his mouth: "Why
not?"
Memory clouded her face. "If it were so, surely a man would not
apologize to a woman when he touches her."
Pain slashed through James. He had apologized to his wife every
time he had come to her bed.
He had apologized through his restraint, that he not overwhelm
her with his masculinity. He had apologized through his silence, that
he not repulse her with labored breathing or an animalistic grunt of
completion.
Their sexes had touched, but they themselves had not.
Every release James had gained had been weighted with the
knowledge that his wife did not share it. It had been her duty to
submit. It had been his duty to procreate. Their duty had made
them strangers.
"You are concerned that you did not satisfy your wife," a feminine
voice unexpectedly charged.
James focused on pale green eyes instead of the past.
"There is no need for a woman to lie awake at night, aching with
need. Women have hands and fingers." She notched her chin, daring
him to judge her. "We do not need a man to give us satisfaction.
We are quite capable of satisfying ourselves."
A shocked intake of breath shot down his spine.
"You said you wanted to know if women have the same needs as
men," she continued, "I believe they do."
A distant Big Ben bonged the half hour.
"I believe there are women who may want more out of marriage
than what their husbands are capable of giving to them, just as I believe
there are men who may desire more than what their wives are
capable of giving. I do not believe either are at fault."
The pain James had earlier felt briefly shone in her eyes. "You
said you needed to know if there can be honesty between men and
women. I believe we have both just now proven that it is, indeed,
possible. Good day, ladies"-she curtly bobbed her head-"gentlemen."
Having opened the door on feminine desire, she now closed it.
"You
are afraid of your sexuality," he goaded.
The closing door halted; her head snapped upward.
"I am forty-nine years old"-laughter abruptly illuminated her
face; the soft skin at the corners of her eyes crinkled-"and have
been married for thirty-four of those years. I have five children, and
eight grandchildren. I assure you, sir, there has been no time to fear
my sexuality."
Nor had she possessed the opportunity to explore it, she did not
need to add.
James did not share the laughter she so generously offered.
She had married at the age of fifteen; he would have been thirteen,
studying at Eton.
Silver glinted out of the corner of his right eye, a flash of metal
spectacles.
Marie Hoppleworth, a perennial student at the age of thirty-six,
focused on the enigma that stood in the doorway.
What was it that compelled one woman to speak honestly before
twelve strangers, when the members of the Men and Women's Club
could not speak honestly among themselves?
"You are not from London," he said shortly.
One second the woman's eyes were alight with laughter; the next
second they clouded with wariness. "No."
James had been a barrister too long not to recognize the look in
her gaze: she was hiding-but from what?
Deliberately he used the provocative term for the metropolis that
lured like a flame both the young and the old, the poor and the
wealthy. "Why did you come to the City of Dreadful Delights?"
"I wished to experience a season of entertainment," she said with
sudden reserve, "and amusement."
James's voice was pistol sharp. "Without your husband?"
Had she come to London to find a man who would not apologize
for touching her?
How could he blame her if she had?
She visibly recoiled. "I am a widow, sir."
A widow who did not dress in mourning black.
His youth had been filled with ambition. Her youth had been
filled with children. Did she yearn to experience all the things as a
woman of forty-nine that she had not experienced as a girl of fifteen?
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Scandalous Lovers
by ROBIN SCHONE
Copyright © 2007 by Robin Schone.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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