Stupid to feel devastated. She’d always known he had no thoughts of making her his wife. He was so far above her, socially, that she might as well dream of getting a proposal from the emperor of the Russias.
‘Can you stand yet?’
His impatience to get rid of her gave her a solid motive for attempting to get to her feet. And once she was on them, her own pride stopped her from tottering across the carpet, flinging herself on to his chest and begging him not to send her away like this.
She knew he’d wanted to do much more. He’d begun to unfasten his breeches before thinking better of it. And even she, inexperienced as she was, could not fail to see that he was still massively aroused.
It couldn’t have been easy for him to call a halt. Especially since he was not used to exercising any self-restraint. If she were one of his usual women, it would all have reached a natural conclusion by now and they would be sipping wine together, laughing and chatting comfortably.
No wonder he was so angry with her. Perhaps if she explained that she wouldn’t demand, or even hope for, a marriage proposal from him, he would push her back down on to the sofa and carry on where they’d left off.
Though all that would accomplish, in the long term, would be her degradation. Her family would be dreadfully disappointed in her, should they ever find out, and as for him—he would despise her.
And she didn’t think she could bear that, on top of everything else. Better not to make the offer. At least then she could walk away clinging to the few tattered shreds of what remained of her dignity.
With an expression of exasperation, he started to twitch her disordered clothing into place with deft fingers. Removed pins from her hair, tweaked curls and fixed them back in place with a dexterity that spoke of years of practice, while she just stood there, incapable of either moving or framing words.
He hadn’t had any trouble framing words. He’d given her quite a trimming, although she’d detected concern at the back of it. He’d rebuked her in the same way her brothers would have done, had they caught her doing something stupid and dangerous.
So he did care for her. Just a little bit.
If he didn’t, he might have just used her to slake his needs, before walking away and leaving her to deal with the consequences alone.
But he hadn’t. He was still, to judge from the state of his breeches, quite uncomfortable, yet he was tidying her up, ensuring she could return to her world without a stain on her character.
For him, that amounted to quite a sacrifice.
It made her love him all the more.
When he eventually stepped back and surveyed her appearance with a critical eye, she wasn’t trembling any more.
It was amazing how swiftly the body could recover, when inside she felt as though she was dying.
‘Go on, get out of here,’ he said harshly. ‘Even your aunt might start to notice you missing if you loiter much longer.’ And he didn’t know how much longer he would be able to resist her if she kept on standing there looking so woebegone. He would be sweeping her into his arms and on to that sofa, and condemning them both to hell for the rest of their lives.
‘F-farewell, then,’ she stuttered, then turned on her heel and ran to the terrace door. Fumbled her way through the heavy velvet curtains, and rattled the key in the lock.
Don’t go...
The plea died on his lips as she finally managed to get the door open and fled through it, out into the night.
Leaving him alone. Utterly alone.
He sank on to the sofa and buried his face in his hands.
Chapter Twelve
Henrietta did not go to Lady Carelyon’s dress ball. Lord Deben ensured she had no need to, by disappearing.
At first, most people said he must have gone to one of his estates to lick his wounds in private, though some maintained that was nonsense, he wouldn’t care about a skinny little nonentity that much. He’d probably just gone to the races.
When he did not return to town along with the other racegoers, the rumourmongers became more inventive. Perhaps he’d taken off with Mrs Yardley, an attractive widow in straitened circumstances who’d been resolutely refusing offers of protection from various well-heeled members of the aristocracy for the past two years. It would certainly account for the fact that she’d disappeared at about the same time.
For three days Henrietta tortured herself by imagining him slaking his desires in some out-of-the way love nest with this glamorous, beautiful widow, until Mrs Yardley appeared in Green Park, walking with the maiden aunt who acted as her companion and chaperon. They were both, according to the buck who’d accosted them, stunned to discover they’d been thought missing and indignant to hear of what Mrs Yardley was suspected. They had both merely been suffering from a minor indisposition which had made them stay within doors for a few days. To judge from the redness of both their noses, came the report, and the bleariness of their eyes, they’d most likely had a summer cold.
Henrietta soon perceived she’d been incredibly naïve when she’d imagined Lord Deben would be the one who’d have to face the aftermath of their public quarrel. Because he was a man, he didn’t need to face up to anything. He had the power to order his carriage and slink off to one of his estates. Or go to the races. Or snap his fingers to some eager, experienced woman, who would be only too glad to satisfy his needs in a way she could not. A woman who would, when he was done with her, leave him absolutely free. If not Mrs Yardley, then another.
* * *
It became increasingly difficult to pretend she didn’t care about the spiteful asides being whispered behind gloved hands wherever she went—loudly enough to ensure she overheard every one. Even her aunt conceded that there was no need to accept every invitation that came from what Mildred had taken to referring to as ‘the top-lofty set’. And so Henrietta began, discreetly, to remove herself from the sphere in which Lord Deben would naturally move, when eventually he did return.
Apart from anything else, she did not know how she would cope with seeing him, knowing he’d spent the intervening time with some other woman, touching her the way he’d touched Hentrietta. Kissing her. Driving her wild with desire. And then taking his own pleasure in her body. To the full.
For what else could he be doing?
Every night, in her lonely bed, she lay there, wondering. She could think of nothing else, when she had nothing else to distract her. Every time she almost drifted off to sleep, the weight of the blankets on top of her became the echo of his body, pressing her into that sofa. Her skin reminded her of the paths his hands had traced. She grew heated and restless, and didn’t know what to do with herself. In vain did she throw off the covers. He haunted her. And she had nobody to blame but herself. He’d warned her that if he kissed her she would never be the same again. That he would make her a woman, aware of her body.
He’d also said she would look at men and wonder if their lips could rouse her to the heights he’d boasted he could show her.
It was no consolation to discover he’d been wrong about that. That the only man whose lips she would ever want on her were his.
Sometimes, when she had a few moments to herself during the day, she would take out the three monogrammed handkerchiefs she’d never quite been able to bring herself to return to him, close her eyes and press them to her lips. It wasn’t the same. They were cool and dead, and, having spent weeks tucked at the bottom of her underwear drawer, they no longer bore even the remotest trace of his uniquely masculine scent.
But, because she did not want anyone to suspect how badly Lord Deben had hurt her, she took far more care over her appearance than she ever had before. She applied rice powder to the shadows under her eyes, made sure her gowns were taken in so that her loss of weight did not become apparent and even went so far as applying a little rouge to disguise her pallor.
<
br /> It had been bad enough to have had her aunt accusing her of moping, after the Richard fiasco. At least then she’d been able to believe everything would have been better if she could return to Much Wakering. Now she knew it would be useless to go anywhere else. Wherever she went, it would be without him, so she would still feel as though she was slowly dying. Besides, he’d rather taken the gloss off the life she’d lived in Much Wakering. She’d always thought of herself as indispensable to her family’s happiness. She’d assumed her brothers loved her as much as she loved them. It had taken the cynical Lord Deben to point out that they’d all been taking her for granted for years.
No, if she was going to be miserable, she might as well be in London, with at least the benefit of theatre trips and art exhibitions to act as a distraction. Besides, her aunt and uncle were planning a lavish wedding for Mildred and Mr Crimmer. She did not want to spoil their happiness by waving her own misery in their faces like a banner.
* * *
Then one day, about a week after Mrs Yardley put paid to the rumours she was Lord Deben’s latest mistress, Julia Twining and Lady Susan Pettiffer came to call on her.
She received them gladly, since they had been about the only people who had never treated her any differently, while she’d been entangled with Lord Deben, or afterwards.
‘I have come,’ Julia began, once they’d taken a cup of tea, and after Lady Susan had nudged her in the ribs, ‘to speak to you about my literary evening. You have to buy a ticket, you know. It is in aid of the foundling home.’
‘What Julia means,’ put in Lady Susan with a quick frown of reproof, ‘is that we very much hope you will attend. We have both noticed you are not going about as much as usual and, in certain ways, I can understand why not. But this,’ she said leaning forwards to make her point, ‘is important.’
‘I think we are supposed to be going to dinner with some business connections of my uncle’s that evening.’
Lady Susan looked annoyed. ‘There is no reason why you have to go, too, is there? Don’t you think you might be excused? You could still reach Julia’s house in time if I sent a carriage and a brace of footmen to fetch you.’
‘Surely my attendance won’t make any difference...’
‘Oh, yes, it will,’ Lady Susan snapped. ‘We need you there because of Cynthia Lutterworth. Cynthia means to read us some of her poems. You do remember Cynthia, do you not?’
She put the term ‘poetess’ alongside the name of
Lutterworth and came up with the image of a wild-haired creature, just as Lady Susan went on, ‘And I’m quite sure, having been the target of malicious gossip yourself, that you understand how cruel some people can be. How unfair. Just because she is a woman, and her parents’ money comes from trade, some people will take delight in mocking her.’
‘It isn’t fair,’ put in Julia. ‘When she is just doing her part to raise money for charity.’
‘But surely, if her poetry is any good, people will have no call to mock...’ Henrietta trailed away as the two visitors exchanged a significant look.
‘It isn’t that her verses are dreadful,’ said Julia.
‘No, they’re certainly no worse than many others I could name,’ finished Lady Susan. ‘And if she were only pretty, or had a title, they would garner a great deal of rapturous applause,’ she added with a sneer.
Henrietta promptly changed her mind about Lady Susan. Though she had not been able to warm to her to begin with, it seemed that once Lady Susan had made a friend, she was loyal. And that counted for much, in the circles she inhabited. She could so easily have bowed to the prevailing opinions and joined in the mockery of one who had no means of defending herself. But for some reason, Lady Susan had decided she liked Cynthia, or her poems, and was not afraid to say so.
And had Lady Carelyon not predicted she would be in need of friends, once she and Lord Deben were finished? Having friends would help. Not that she would dream of confiding in them, but at least it would be comforting to think there were some people who actually wanted to be with her for no other reason than that they appeared to like her.
‘Very well, I shall come and applaud with great enthusiasm, no matter how dreadful I find her verse.’
Julia beamed at her.
‘Thank you,’ said Lady Susan. ‘That will be a great help. I have already persuaded Lady Twining to have Mr Wythenshawe go on first.’
Henrietta wondered briefly why Lady Twining had allowed Lady Susan to have any say in the running order of the evening at an event to be held in her house. But then she decided there were probably not very many people who could put a halt to Lady Susan once she’d got the bit between her teeth.
‘His poetry is so awful,’ explained Lady Susan, ‘that Cynthia’s offerings will come as a positive relief to the audience. There is nothing we can do about Lord Smedly-Fotherington, unfortunately,’ she said with a frown. ‘He is of noble birth, has long curly hair and has lately taken to dressing like a Turkish prince.’
‘But is his poetry any good?’
Lady Susan’s lip curled. ‘What does that matter? He out-Byron’s Byron.’
‘He is actually very accomplished,’ put in Julia.
‘And very vain.’
‘I promise,’ said Henrietta, feeling for the first time in days that she was no longer completely without value, or completely without friends, ‘that I shall not be in the slightest bit impressed by him.’
‘You haven’t seen him push his curls off his forehead with his long white fingers,’ Julia warned her.
‘That will have no effect upon me.’
‘No,’ put in Lady Susan with approval. ‘If you have managed to stand firm against a man of Lord Deben’s breathtaking masculinity, you will be quite immune to a young fop like Smedly-Fotherington. Didn’t I tell you so, Julia? Miss Gibson has a mind of her own.’
* * *
It didn’t occur to Henrietta, until she was actually entering the house two nights later, that the guest list would be much the same as it had been on the night of Julia Twining’s ball. Not until the moment, in fact, when she saw Richard—with Miss Waverley on his arm, smiling up at him coquettishly.
The sight left her almost entirely unmoved, apart from a brief spurt of something like annoyance that she had to see either of them at all.
As far as she was concerned, Miss Waverley was welcome to Richard. And he to her.
Unfortunately, good manners dictated that she not ignore them, for Richard hailed from her own home town. And whatever he’d done to her, he not only had no idea that he’d done it, but he was, still, her brother’s friend.
When, therefore, she was on the point of passing them, she stopped and dipped a brief curtsy.
‘You here, Hen? Well, it’s good to see you,’ said Richard. ‘Though I must say you’re looking a trifle hagged. London too rackety for you, eh? Told you it would be. Don’t say I didn’t.’
Miss Waverley arched a brow at him. ‘You know Miss Gibson?’
‘Lord, yes! Practically grew up together. Like brother and sister.’
Henrietta gave him a level stare. Brothers did not grab sisters and kiss them under the mistletoe with such enthusiasm, thereby leading them to expect that feelings ran deeper, or rather, sprang from a source that was very far removed from filial affection.
‘There you are!’ Lady Susan was bearing down on the trio with a determined look on her face. ‘Miss Gibson,’ she said, ‘I am saving a seat for you next to me, on the front row. Once Miss Lutterworth puts on her spectacles to do her reading I don’t suppose she will be able to see us, but at least on the way to the dais, she might notice some friendly faces among the crowd. You will excuse us,’ she said to Miss Waverley and Richard dismissively.
‘Of course, Lady Susan,’ said Miss Waverley.
‘Had no idea you w
as friends with Lady Susan,’ said Richard at the same time, looking a bit put out.
Lady Susan smiled at them both, that cat-like smile which Henrietta was coming to recognise as preceding one of her acid barbs.
‘I value Miss Gibson so greatly that I sent my own carriage and footmen to make sure she would be here tonight. It is so rare that one finds a person who does not delight in tittle-tattle, in spiteful speculation, or stabbing her acquaintances in the back,’ she said to Richard, whilst darting a meaningful look in Miss Waverley’s direction.
Henrietta felt a little winded by Lady Susan’s spirited defence. ‘I had no idea you were aware that Miss Waverley dislikes me so much,’ she said as they moved further into the room.
‘She makes no secret of it. I do not know what you can have done to put that vain creature’s perfect little nose out of joint, but I am inclined to think whatever it was, she deserved it.’
They were the only two people moving with any purpose. Everyone else was milling about, greeting acquaintances, taking drinks from circulating waiters, or, in the case of most of the men, edging towards the exit that led to the card room. She noticed, though, a knot of people gathered around a rather beautiful young man with flowing silken curls, dressed in flowing silken robes.
‘Smedly-Fotherington’s admirers,’ muttered Lady Susan, noticing the direction of her gaze. ‘They are the ones who will be most inclined to snigger when Cynthia steps on to the stage.’
At the front of the room, to which they were steadily making their way, was a small raised platform, containing a lectern, upon which the various speakers would be able to rest their pages of verse. Four rows of chairs were arranged before it, in a semi-circle, with a break every few chairs to allow ease of access.
As she took a chair upon the very front row, Henrietta glanced over her shoulder. Richard, she was certain, would be longing to join the group of men sidling out of the doors. He had no interest in poetry whatsoever, and, by the sound of it, he was about to be treated to several samples of the very worst sort. But from the looks of things, Miss Waverley had no intention of letting him off the leash.
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