Taboo Page 11

  “That’s right,” Bridge said. His voice sounded more resonant than usual, or perhaps it was just the echo in the high-ceilinged room. The sound of it lifted the hairs on the back of her neck, and she shivered as his hand guided hers to his lips. The tip of his tongue touched her palm, lightly at first, tracing tiny, erotic circles. The sensation radiated straight through her. From her scalp to the soles of her feet, she was awash in sensation.

  “Sweet Fallon. Trusting Fallon.” His voice was the slightest whisper in her ear.

  She did trust him. Didn’t she? Trust him how? To never lie? To never cheat? To never hurt her? She inhaled sharply. This was all wrong. These were the types of thoughts one harbored about a potential mate. She and Bridge were merely spending a final few hours together, no lifetimes. No commitment. No happily ever after. But she did love him, and love demanded trust. So he was right. He had won her trust. Together with her heart.

  He guided her bare hand to the sculpture, cupped her compliant fingers around the cold marble.

  “Tell me what you feel.”

  “It’s smooth,” Fallon said. “Cold as death. Which seems wrong when I know how alive it looks.”

  “To the eye it appears alive. The other senses know different.

  Fallon took a sniff. “It has no scent.”

  “Actually, you’re mistaken. Different stoneworks carry different and very distinct scents. But they’re extremely subtle. It takes a lot of practice to discern, never mind to differentiate.”

  “All I can smell is you,” Fallon confessed. “I would know your scent anyplace.”

  “As I would know yours.”

  She felt Bridge lean into her and draw a deep breath, then he exhaled hotly against the back of her neck. She shivered.

  “Montague. I thought that was you, then wondered if my eyes had deceived me.”

  Fallon’s eyes flew open in shock at the sound of a sharp, female voice. She turned and saw a tall, angular, black-garbed woman. And while the woman’s words were directed at Bridge, her eyes were pinned upon Fallon, who felt herself shrinking beneath the pointed gaze.

  To her dismay, Bridge abandoned her and approached the older woman, who turned one cheek in his direction. Bridge obviously knew his cue. He kissed the proffered cheek and drew her forward.

  “Mother, what a delight to run into you here. I’ve someone I’d like you to meet. Fallon Gilchrist, my mother.”

  “How—how do you do, Mrs. Bridgeman,” Fallon managed, beyond dismayed that the woman had seen the sensual way she’d been leaning against Bridge as she’d fondled the nude, erotic sculpture.

  “Captain Gilchrist’s widow?”

  Fallon nodded silently. Standing beside the woman in her somber black ensemble, Fallon felt as cheap and showy as a whore in her ruby gown. She fought the urge to pull the edges of her cloak together. Why, oh why, had she let Bridge talk her into wearing the impossible frock?

  “Your taste is improving, son. She’s not your usual strumpet.” The woman returned her attention to Fallon. “I was given to understand you had sequestered yourself on your late husband’s estate. What brings you to our fair city?”

  “Mother, you underestimate my powers of charm and persuasion.” As Bridge looped a possessive arm across her shoulders, Fallon felt herself flush nearly as deep-hued as her gown.

  “Montague, I have learned over the years to never underestimate you. Kindly allow Mrs. Gilchrist to speak for herself.” She leveled a look toward Fallon.

  Never one to back down from a challenge, Fallon drew herself as erect as possible, head high, shoulders straight. “Following my husband’s death, I seemed to lose heart for my own art. Your son did indeed convince me I might rediscover my inspiration by viewing some of the exhibits in the Athenaeum. And, he insisted upon accompanying me to ensure I really made the trip.”

  The look in Mrs. Bridgeman’s eyes, as they moved from Fallon to Bridge and back, told Fallon that she wasn’t fooled, not even for a minute.

  “Montague is very much his father’s son. A master at achieving his own ends.”

  “It was by your example I learned such tenacity,” Bridge corrected. “Father was seldom around.”

  “He was around often enough to demonstrate several of his less desirable traits. Although I must say, your father’s taste ran to women many years younger than himself. I shan’t keep you two any longer. I have a committee meeting which requires my presence.”

  The old lady swept away, very much like a majestic raven. Even after the sound of her footsteps faded, her presence lingered, a cloyingly sweet perfume laden with an air of disapproval.

  “Don’t look so stricken,” Bridge said, his fingers beneath Fallon’s chin in a light caress. “Her bark is far worse than her bite.”

  “Easy for you to say. It wasn’t you from whom she was drawing blood; it was I.” Fallon’s hands were shaking so badly she could hardly draw on her gloves. Bridge helped her with the simple task, keeping hold of both her hands in his afterward. He seemed so sure, so unflappable.

  Fallon pulled away. His reputation was hardly at risk; it was already notorious. But what damage might befall hers?

  “You’re taking this little encounter far too seriously, my dear.”

  “Am I really?” Fallon asked. “Should I not be distressed to be labeled one of your strumpets?”

  “Mother embraces a somewhat old-fashioned view of the world.”

  “Indeed? Her view is echoed by most of the population, when it comes right down to it.”

  “You really are upset. Do you wish to leave?”

  “I do,” Fallon said.

  “Right, then,” Bridge said. “Your wish is, as always, my command.”

  Fallon fell silent as they left the Athenaeum. She didn’t want her wish to be Bridge’s command. She hadn’t asked for her life to be turned inside out, or her reputation to be in tatters. For a mature older woman such as herself to be seen in the company of a young man like Bridge . . . How ridiculous she must look, and rightly so. After all, her escort had been bought and paid for. How could she forget such a detail? It was her own fault that she’d been unmasked in all her folly, and ridiculed.

  In the carriage she sat as far away from Bridge as possible, staring sightlessly out the window. The city, which only a few hours earlier had seemed so intriguing and full of life, now struck her as cold and dirty and unfriendly. She couldn’t wait to flee to her sanctuary, back to the safety of her anonymity in the country.

  She started when the carriage lurched to a stop. “Why are we stopping? I asked to go home.”

  “Earlier, you agreed to spend the day doing what I wish.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.” She knew she sounded like a sulky child, but she didn’t care a fig.

  “Fallon,” Bridge responded in tones one would use with a querulous young person. “It’s a lengthy journey back. We need to stop and have something to eat and refresh ourselves, first.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Well, I do. You may feel free to sit in the carriage, if you wish.” He started to leave, then turned back to face her. “Look at us. How ridiculous. We’re adults.”

  “I am, at any rate. And quite capable of making my own decisions.”

  “Have it your way.” Bridge swung out of the carriage and strode across the park. Fallon remained inside, suddenly unsure of what to do next. Sit there like a sulky child and await his return? Or order the driver to return to the country, leaving Bridge to his own devices?

  She opened her mouth to issue the order, then stopped. This was not how she wished their last day together to end, without even a proper goodbye. Surely Bridge would feel the same? Surely he’d return any minute and coax her to join him? Eventually, she would relent. Reluctantly, of course, but graciously, nonetheless.

  Fallon was glad she had no clock in front of her, for surely the minutes would tick by loudly, in painful slowness. She popped her head out the carriage window. No sign of Bridge. Finally, when she cou
ld sit still no longer, she opened the door and stepped out of the conveyance, wondering which direction Bridge had taken.

  She was glancing about uncertainly and had just decided to ask the driver if he’d taken note of which direction Mr. Bridgeman had gone, when she heard, “Boo!”

  Bridge popped up around the corner of the carriage.

  Fallon jumped. “You startled me.”

  “Exactly my intention, my dear.” He pulled out his time-piece. “You had exactly three more minutes before I planned to drag you out by the hair.”

  She managed a half smile. “I did want to see the park. And I will admit to being a bit peckish.”

  “I know the ideal picnic spot, where we can have our repast in complete privacy. Please do me the honor of joining me.”

  “Mrs. Buttle would be sorely miffed if her basket came back untouched.”

  “And we mustn’t annoy Mrs. Buttle.” Bridge fetched their picnic and offered Fallon his free arm.

  It came as no great surprise that he would know the perfect location in the park for a private tryst. No doubt he was familiar with every secluded nook and cranny the city had to offer, availing himself of each and every opportunity to deflower a maiden, cuckhold a neglectful husband, or bring a slumbering widow back to life, the way he had done with her. How many other grateful women had found themselves on the receiving end of Bridge’s carnal skills? How many women did it take to elevate one’s lovemaking abilities to the masterful level of Bridge’s? She was but one in a long and unending line, a fact she would do well to remember.

  The picnic site to which he led her was a cool, shaded nook, where a canopy of weeping branches and leaves shielded them from the view. A tiny stream gurgled past, no doubt leading to the lagoon. Light and shadow played upon the rich tones of the carriage blanket Bridge spread upon the thick, verdant grass. Fallon glanced up to see tantalizing glimpses of blue sky and sunshine peeking through nature’s ceiling. A rich soil dampness spiked the air, the air rife with sunshine and floral scents.

  The setting brought to mind the time they had made love outside in the rain. The time they had made love on the rose petals. She sighed. Would everything she saw continue to remind her in some way of intimate moments spent with Bridge?

  “What was that sigh for?”

  “I was just wondering ...”

  “Wondering what?” Bridge deposited the basket upon the lap robe, and removed his jacket.

  “I was wondering how many women you’ve been with. How many you’ve been intimate with in this very spot.”

  “I make it a point never to revisit the past,” Bridge said. “The future holds so much more to interest me.”

  “A lot of women, I take it.”

  “A lot,” Bridge agreed.

  “So many you’ve lost count.”

  “I’ve never attempted to keep count.”

  “I see,” Fallon said.

  “Now that I’ve satisfied your curiosity to the best of my abilities, come and have something to eat.” Fallon settled herself upon the lap rug and allowed Bridge to fill a plate for her with roast chicken, sweet pickles, and homemade bread.

  “Mrs. Buttle forgot the most important picnic accompaniment,” Bridge said, digging through the basket and coming up empty-handed.

  “What’s that?” Fallon asked.

  “A good bottle of wine.”

  “I’m quite sure Mrs. Buttle disapproves of drink in the daylight hours.”

  “I’m quite certain that good woman disapproves of a lot of things, including me.”

  “I doubt my housekeeper’s opinion of you holds much importance.”

  “I’m used to winning people’s regard.”

  Yes, Bridge must be quite accustomed to swaying people his way. “Sometimes it takes more than a smile and a charming compliment to earn another’s favor.”

  He slapped his knee. “Dash it, then; I’m ruined. For ’tis how I’ve learned to get by.”

  Fallon bit back a giggle. “Are you ever serious?”

  “Good lord, no. Whatever for? I leave that to the stuffed shirts and the politicians.”

  “Politics,” Fallon mused. “The ideal career choice. Should you ever decide to pursue a career, that is.”

  “I’ll make you a deal. The day you apply yourself diligently to your art, take a risk and mount a showing, that’s the day I’ll pursue something serious and important.”

  “That’s hardly fair,” Fallon protested. “Besides . . .”

  “Besides?”

  “After today, we’ll never see each other again. We’ll not know what the other one is about. Hence, I believe your idle days are guaranteed.”

  “Nothing,” Bridge said, “is ever guaranteed.” He leaned forward, plucked a piece of tender breast meat from her plate, and held it up to her lips.

  Fallon hesitated, then opened her mouth, accepting the morsel from his fingers. The last meal they would share. The last time his fingers would linger against her lips. No regrets, she told herself staunchly. Seize this moment and remember it. So why did she suddenly find it so hard to swallow?

  She was still struggling with her first bite when they were interrupted by the arrival of another couple, a young man and woman holding hands and laughing a secret laugh. The couple stopped short, their laughter dying. Tense silence reigned supreme, but only briefly.

  “Bridge,” said the dark-haired beauty. “Well, well. And here you’d led me to believe this was our special place.”

  “The whereabouts of which, you seem inclined to share as much as I,” Bridge said.

  “I grew used to sharing you. I believe you know Beau.” She indicated the young man with his arm about her waist.

  Bridge acknowledged the youth with a nod.

  “And this must be the woman everyone’s talking about. The one who paid handsomely for your services. She turned to Fallon in mock innocence. “Has Bridge given you your money’s worth?”

  Chapter 11

  Mortified, Fallon dropped her plate, pushed herself to her feet, and plunged headlong through the leafy curtains and out into the park. She heard Bridge’s footfalls behind her as she raced pell-mell toward her carriage. Strands of her hair pulled free as she ran, and blew wildly around her face, but she didn’t care a fig about the odd looks being sent her way.

  She knew Bridge was on her heels, just as she knew she had little hope of outrunning him. So why even try? Her wretched ruby frock left no room even to draw a deep breath. She slowed to a walk and tried to catch her breath. The little sprint had left her quite winded.

  “Fallon.” Bridge slowed with her, caught her arm, and turned her to face him. “Where are you tearing off to like that?”

  “It’s been a most enlightening week, Bridge. And an even more enlightening little jaunt into town. You’ve fulfilled your obligation, as I have fulfilled mine. I’m going back to the country.”

  “What’s happened to upset you so?”

  Fallon gave him a long, searching look and decided, Yes, men truly are dense creatures. “Your mother has labeled me a strumpet. Your friends have mocked me to my face. I think that counts as more than enough insults for one outing, wouldn’t you?”

  “Who cares what other people think?”

  “Generally, Bridge, I do. I know you enjoy flaunting society’s rules and mores, and relish shocking people with your behavior. I don’t. I do what’s expected; I like the rules. I like knowing them and following them.”

  “Playing it safe,” Bridge said.

  “Some of us need to feel safe.”

  “So what’s unsafe about being here with me today?”

  Fallon sighed. Somehow she’d known that Bridge would not make it easy for her to leave. Even as she faced him she felt pangs of regret, a whisper of longing for what would never be.

  She laid a gloved hand against his jaw. “Dear Bridge. This has been a week out of a dream, but the dream is over. Reality harkens.”

  “Describe your reality.”

  “My
reality is that I am a middle-aged widow who must live her life quietly and modestly, as dictated by society. Not dash about town in the company of a handsome young rake, however charming and persuasive he might be.”

  Bridge set his lips in a stubborn frown. “You are saying we are taboo.”

  “You and I as a couple are very much taboo. And if I needed further convincing, today’s excursion provided it.”

  Bridge linked his fingers through hers with fierce possessiveness and drew her against him. “I make you happy. I know I do.”

  “Your presence this past week has rendered me very happy indeed; beyond my wildest imaginings. But the censure we would receive, were we to keep further company, would destroy those happy memories and ultimately destroy everything good we had together.”

  “You’re worried about the Boston set. We can leave. There are dozens of other cities where we could be happy, where the people are not so backward in their thinking. Paris. Rome. London.”

  Fallon smiled sadly and stepped back from him. “You make it sound very tempting. And perhaps for a while, we could be happy someplace else. But eventually one or both of us would miss our roots and want to come back here, only to find that nothing has changed.”

  “We could change.”

  “Bridge, my dear, I’m too old to change. And I would hate for you to attempt to change who you are. Even for me.”

  She wasn’t certain she had convinced him until he said, “I’ll see you home.”

  “No, my love. We’ll say goodbye here and now. It truly was a week out of time and I shall never forget it.”

  Bridge looked as if he had other things he wished to say, but he pressed his lips tightly together. He handed her into the carriage, slammed the door louder than necessary, turned, and walked away.

  “So, was he as divine as he looks?”

  Fallon all but unseated herself at the unexpected sight and sound of her friend. “Aurora! What on earth are you doing here?”

  “Getting a firsthand accounting of my gift, of course. What else?”

  “You scared me half to death. I meant, how did you come to be sitting in my carriage?”