Читать книгу Sexual Secrets - Melissa MacNeal - Страница 9

Camille shook until her skirts quivered around her knees. As she gripped her sister’s strong yet delicate hands—such capable hands—she felt a surge of heat and energy and excitement. Excitement! How long since she’d felt this giddy? This open to the new possibilities: such a decadently delicious opportunity as switching husbands! And having that prodigious cock of Heath’s rammed up inside her…

“My stars! Is it me, or has it grown impossibly warm in here?”

Her twin giggled. “Isn’t this the most fabulous idea we’ve had since—well, since we married Rutledge and Heath Bentley? And the beauty of it is, we can change back if it doesn’t suit us! And who will be the wiser?”

Camille gulped air to keep the room from spinning. “Let’s not consider that, sister. Already that new footman—Charlie, isn’t it?—has listened in on our plan, and the driver—”

“Are we not the ladies of the manor? Do we not wield as much power, in our female ways, as Lord Bentley and his son?”

Her sister’s provocative question made her insides pulse, and Camille had to admit there was a certain wisdom to Colette’s assertion. Her bolder twin had always been the one who greased the proverbial wheels and cleared the way for whatever her heart desired.

And she wanted to swap son Heath for his father, Rutledge. Never in her life had Camille anticipated this surprise! This godsend of an opportunity to escape the gilded cage Lord Bentley displayed her in…to suit his own whims at the sacrifice of her own.

She released Colette’s hands. Inhaled the coolness that drifted down from the open windows, to focus on the ordinary sounds of horse-drawn carriages passing the shop…. cries of the street vendors…to anchor herself in reality as she contemplated Colette’s idea.

The reality was that she had four dresses to design in the next few days. But how could she concentrate on her drawing, or trust herself to cut the exquisite silk faille and crepe de chine her well-heeled client had chosen? These gowns, striking imitations of what Empress Eugenie and the Queen had recently worn to the theatre, would set the tone for the entire fashion season among London’s elite. The designs could be nothing less than stupendous.

She would entertain Colette’s fancy until Alice appeared with their custard tart. Then she would eat and get to work, fortified by their foray into this delicious deception.

“So you think no one will be the wiser? What about Daisy and Mrs. Douthit?” she queried as she led the way to the studio. “They’ve attended us since we first married into the Bentley household. They know our mannerisms and our preferences, when it comes to coifing us and choosing our day’s attire and—”

“Yes, indeed, dear sister, if you believe they can perceive differences in our idiosyncrasies, they will! And we’ll be caught before we start! So stop it!” Colette widened her eyes dramatically, teasing…yet not. “And if they do discover our dirty little secret, it’ll be your overcautious, overanxious frowns and questions that alert them! Not mine! Just last night the new cook called you by my name, and neither Daisy nor Mrs. Douthit corrected her.”

Camille began to unfasten her dress. When there were gowns to finish or garments awaiting their final inspection, she and her sister often tried them on. “All right then, when do you propose we do this? It’ll take time to prepare—”

“How soon do you want him inside you, sister?”

Her face flushed the same shade of cerise as her gown. “You make it sound as though we’re arranging stud service for one of Heath’s mares—”

“And aren’t we?” Colette now stood in her corset, camisole, and drawers with her hands on her hips, looking sassy. So damned sure of herself, considering the risks this switch presented. And so damned fetching, with her hair still mussed from her tumble with her husband. She was the picture of a cosseted, confident woman, and her fragrance was a mixture of Heath’s outdoorsy masculinity and a personal perfume Camille had known since before they were born.

“What about Heath? Even if Rutledge won’t become intimate enough to notice you aren’t his wife, your man pays attention to such details,” Camille pointed out. She was stalling, trying very hard to delay such a provocative experiment even as her body twitched in places she didn’t scratch even in front of her twin. “And if Heath figures out our trick, and tells his father, there’ll be hell to pay!”

Colette’s bow-shaped mouth puckered in a secretive smile. “Truth be told, Heath has hinted that he’d like to bed us both. At the same time.”

“He what?”

Her sister shrugged, seeming nonchalant despite the shocking nature of her revelation. “Heath is a man who craves variety—as many men do, sweet sister. If he surmises he’s claimed his father’s bride, he’ll play our game to see how long he can get away with it. What advantage would he have if he revealed our deception to his father?”

“All right then!” Camille rasped. “What about the masked ball next month at Lord Herrington’s? We can dress in identical costumes and—”

“Each return home with the other’s husband? A fine idea! I like it!” Colette clapped her hands gleefully.

“This gives us time to compare notes about our behaviors in the bedroom—”

“And our masks will hide any telltale facial expressions,” Colette added.

“And in the meantime we can also match our voices and gestures and—”

“You’re a genius, Camille. I knew you’d figure out a way, you naughty little thing!” Colette added in a low voice. Her gaze lingered below the waistline of Camille’s opera drawers. “I bet your puss is wet just from thinking about this! Isn’t it?”

Camille nipped her lip and stepped quickly into the dress she was trying on. She would not admit, even to her twin, that her drawers still felt clammy and clingy from watching Heath’s performance through the doorway. It didn’t help that the bedsprings above them, in Rubio Palladino’s apartment, groaned in a suggestive rhythm.

“See there! You want it again right now!” Colette crowed. “Why do I suspect you’ll come sneaking up to spy on us every morning?”

“Don’t be absurd! Daisy will catch on—” Camille stopped to ponder another aspect of this deception, while her sister smoothed the back of the completed gown and then came around in front of her to inspect its ruffled bodice. “And what benefit will you receive from this, Colette?” she asked quietly. “Rutledge is every bit the bore in the bedroom you’ve seen at the table each evening. And once his clothes come off, well…you’ll be missing Heath’s fit, muscled body, I assure you!”

Colette smirked. With practiced hands she tugged at each strip of lace, neck to bosom, to be sure it was stitched securely. “I’ll take my satisfaction from watching you scurry to get dressed and coifed before we come to the shop each morning, Camille. And I’ll eat my meals on time. And who knows?” she asked airily. “Perhaps I’ll catch up on my reading or even engage in intelligent conversation. I’ve done precious little to keep my mind alive these past three years. Why, if it weren’t for tallying the books here at the shop, my brain would’ve wasted away long ago!”

“Lucky for us our husbands don’t think we have brains! Or at least not enough to carry out a deception such as this one!”

They laughed together, a happy sound that rang in the rafters of the salon as they grasped hands. “It will be so much fun to—”

“And a good mornin’ to you, sir!” came Alice’s call from the sidewalk outside. “Might I help ya find somethin’?”

Camille covered a giggle as she looked at Colette. There was no mistaking the flirtation in their seamstress’s voice: it was a sure bet the fellow was dapper and handsome, for Alice didn’t waste her time on any other sort.

“Thank you, my dear, but I’d just stopped to admire your…tart.” The man’s rich, redolent voice camouflaged a suggestive undercurrent.

“Oh, this here’s no ordinary tart,” their seamstress replied coyly. “It’s so creamy and sweet and delicious. Such a shame you’ll not be havin’ a taste, as I can see how badly you’d like to!”

The twins stepped apart, composing their expressions as Alice entered. Sure enough, the young blonde had the flushed lips and mussed hair of a young hoyden who’d been quickly bedded while away on her morning errands. Alice bustled to the small table in Camille’s studio and set the fresh tart on it, filling the room with the rich scents of vanilla and cinnamon.

“Shall we celebrate our auspicious new beginnings over breakfast?” Colette proposed with a wave of her hand.

“I—why, yes! We shall!” Camille took small china plates and forks from her cabinet. “We’d like you to join us, Alice. You can pass along Rubio’s latest prophecies—”

“And don’t deny you were there!” Colette teased. “We heard the bedsprings!”

“And fill us in on that dapper man you addressed outside the shop.”

Alice dropped into the nearest chair at the table, looking from one twin to the other. “Whatever could ya mean? I merely passed the time o’ day with—”

“Dish it up!” Colette insisted. She was watching their shopgirl, eager to devour the thick wedge of custard tart Camille had cut for her, as well. “If it weren’t for your gossip, we’d know precious little about the goings-on in the neighborhood.”

“And aren’t we thankful that our clients want so many new gowns for the summer season, we’ll be swamped for weeks?” Camille chimed in. No sense in letting their seamstress believe they’d discussed anything but business in her absence. “At least you, Alice, have the freedom to sally about town flirting with whomever you choose! We married women must maintain our decorum, as befits the Bentley name and station.”

Alice smiled wryly before devouring a hefty forkful of tart. “Which explains why ya kept your maiden name for the shop, eh? Am I mistaken, or does LeChaud Soeurs translate to mean ‘sisters in heat’?”

Colette nearly choked on her custard. “Nice try, Alice. I believe we were quizzing you, about that man you spoke to outside.”

“And can we help it if our father’s name was Gaston LeChaud? He was our English mother’s choice—a legendary ladies’ man—not ours,” Camille added pointedly.

Alice rolled her large brown eyes over another mouthful of custard. “Well, then, I’ll confess to ya that our mystery man, he had the blackest o’ black hair, swept back from an exotic face—high cheekbones and chiseled lips like a statue’s. A wicked thin mustache, too. And ya heard how he flirted with me! What else is there to know?”

“And he was just passing by the shop? Staring at your tart?”

“Well, actually…I had the impression he was waitin’ for someone,” Alice mused. She folded a stray lock of straw-colored hair behind her ear as she saw him again in her mind’s eye. “Were it rainin’, I would’ve thought he’d stepped beneath the shop’s awnin’ to stay dry.”

“Well, if that’s the best gossip you’ve got, I must get to my drawings. And while I do that, please make the final alterations on the gowns for Lady Etheridge.” Camille put on her own gown again, vaguely unsettled by her shopgirl’s words. Yet what did it matter if a man had been standing in front of the shop? Gentlemen often stopped in to surprise their wives and mistresses, knowing a new gown from LeChaud Soeurs carried a certain cachet because its designer hailed from Paris.

When the front bell tinkled and the door shut with a firm whump, they all three jumped. Colette smoothed the front of her dress and fixed a businesslike smile on her face as she went to greet their customer.

“Yes, good morning! Lady Bentley, I presume?”

Camille blinked. She and Alice peered around the studio doorframe as Colette gave a little curtsy and replied, “I am Colette LeChaud Bentley, at your service, sir. And what might we show you? The latest sketches from my sister’s Parisian collection, perhaps, or—”

“You are already showing me what I’ve come to see,” the stranger replied with a dapper bow. His lip quirked suggestively as he gazed at Colette and then reached for her hand.

What sort of remark was that? Camille felt a jolt of apprehension—or was it envy?—as the genteel man kissed her sister’s wedding ring.

Alice drew Camille back into the studio, her eyes wide. “It’s him! The foreigner I spoke to outside!” she whispered.

“I’ve heard nothing but complimentary reviews of your gowns, and I’ve come to indulge a very special lady in something…original. Exquisite.” His sonorous voice was soft, yet it filled the front foyer with a male mystique that was having an obvious effect on Colette.

Her businesslike twin’s hand fluttered to her collarbone, left bare above her simple dress of claret crepe. “We specialize in exquisite, sir,” she replied silkily. “You’ve come to the right place!”

“Indeed I have! I am Hadrian Swann, and so very pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said with another courtly bow. “I look forward to our close association, and to giving you the business.”

For the first time Camille could ever remember, her sister stood speechless.