by Karen Harper
His other hand skimmed her spine. That touch through the silken robe set her to trembling. Last night things had happened rather fast as if to seal the deal, but this—this was wooing, real romance, of course. It was what she had longed for, yet the pursuit was what enticed her, not the capture. Was she demented? She should have talked more to Lucy about this part of marriage.
“May I remove your robe, darling, and we’ll get in the water?”
“Of course. I’m not as strong a swimmer as—as you might think, raised in the wilds of Canada.”
She’d almost said, as my sister is. She had to stop thinking about Lucy and the ruin of her marriage to James. This was going to be grand. She loved Clayton—desired him too, surely. He was everything she’d wanted.
He lifted the robe from her shoulders, and she quickly untied it so he could pull it away. Her hair fell like a curtain round her as she rose from the bench and went down the steps into the water. It was quite warm. It seemed to caress and shelter her.
Clayton removed his robe and followed her in. His vision—his fantasy, he had said—was to see her swim with her red hair streaming out behind her, so she put her hands out in front and stepped off. The ripples caressed her. In a splash he was at her side, smiling, his hands reaching for her waist.
“Two days to touch, to know each other, to be one,” he whispered as he treaded water, holding her up.
As he moved a slick knee between her legs, she put her hands on his shoulders.
Oh my, he was ready right now. What a shock to realize that she was too, and not only from the water in the pool.
He moved them into the corner where he could steady them. He pressed her against the ceramic tiles, kissing her, devouring her.
So this was really the marriage act, but not in the privacy of a bed. This was in living, moving water, a bit rushed, a bit strong, but there was power in it. She totally surrendered, her mind, too, as she had not last night when a part of her had stood aside, still thinking, thinking. But not this time. This was seduction and surrender, swirling around, sinking and soaring. So this was love.
CHAPTER Nine
God forgive her, but the moment Elinor absolutely knew she had made the right choice to marry Clayton was when their carriage approached the gate of his Essex estate and the tenants were there, lining the road under some sort of wooded arch they had made to welcome them, especially the estate’s new mistress. And they were cheering for them as if they were royalty.
Feeling quite grand, once the brougham stopped, she nodded, smiled, and waved to the group of all ages, at least fifty of them. Two men spoke to Clayton and then unhitched his horses, Pair and Impair, and pulled the carriage the rest of the way themselves, still shouting huzzahs in unison.
But to Elinor’s dismay, they pulled them right past the big Georgian home, Durrington House, down the road to the smaller, older house, Sheering Hall.
“Clayton, why isn’t the formal reception at Durrington? You said we would live there soon,” she said over the noise.
“Ah, in all the excitement, I guess I forgot to tell you. A line in the leasing contract reminded me I still must honor the period for which I let Durrington. We’ll be cozy at Sheering until we have a family, my dearest—much more intimate. We’ll still have the run of the estate lands, pastures for the herd, forests, pheasants, and all. We’ll have a fine shoot here soon and you ladies—invite your mother and sister, of course—can ride out and have luncheon with the guns. You’ll love Lady Brooke, the grand dame of this area, and she can’t wait to meet you. She and Lord Brooke are related to the Warwicks, lots of parties and events, dearest.”
Elinor was miffed, but she tried to buck herself up. She was just tired after all that watery lovemaking, and then Clayton had even hinted at romance out on a blanket in the forest or fields here. But hadn’t he led her to believe that they would live in Durrington? And she fretted that Clayton kept nipping at liquor in a flask she’d never laid eyes on before they wed.
Ah, but at last someone was cheering her on and not just adoring her sister. She forced a smile and waved stiff-wristed to their tenants, just the way she’d seen Queen Victoria do once when her carriage rolled past in London.
This was chaos, utter chaos, but Lucy, now known as Lucile, had never been happier.
Her passion for her new business consumed her. Thank heavens, Esme had Mother and Bradford to care for her. Though the dining room and parlor were stuffed to the gills with bolts of fabric and other stock, she had managed to hire four seamstresses to help out. Blessedly, two of them took things home with them to make room for the other two underfoot. Yet Lucile not only sketched each design after a consultation with the buyer either here or at her own home but fitted the garments and delivered them personally in a paper-lined box.
“Lucile, this chiffon doesn’t drape like it did in your sketch of this teagie,” her seamstress Margaret told her, holding up the soft drift of a golden silk skirt.
“It has to,” Lucile told her. “That’s one of the gowns for the charity play my sister’s in, the one directed by my brother-in-law’s friend, Lord Rosslyn. The charity was a grand success here, and His Lordship is taking it to Edinburgh, though I’m a bit nervous the tighter-fitting gowns, after all those stagy, bulky ones over the years, will be a shock to the Scots. They’re much more conservative than we British, you know. Rebaste and drape and show it to me again.”
She glanced up at the dining room wall, which sported not only sketches of her designs but also her major triumphs so far. She was most proud of the framed photograph she’d had taken of her very first nonfamily design, Mrs. Brand’s gown. Next to that she had mounted the program for the charity play Diplomacy, in which Elinor had the role of Dora here in London. Though Lucile detested still having to use her old name publicly, she read again on the wall the encouraging words Dresses designed by Mrs. James Wallace.
Wrong name or not, her dreams were coming true, however cramped it was in here. She was desperate to expand her space, staff, and clientele, for many wedding gown orders were flowing in, and she had plans to begin to design underclothes. She could not bear to have her lovely garments worn over what they called “nun’s veiling” or plain linen with a bit of embroidery. Her sideline of corsets would be important too. She hoped to soften them, enhance them since everyone thought they were still de rigueur. Actually, she’d love to get women out of corsets for good and not just from under robes or teagies.
But how to let a place, somewhere good but not too expensive? She had to admit she gave short shrift to juggling receipts and salaries and the price of purchases, so how to figure in fees to lease a shop? She needed to spend her time on creating, overseeing, and promoting. Now, where had she lost that calling card in this mess that gave the name of a Cosmo Duff-Gordon, someone whom Clayton had said could advise her on all that tricky numerical nonsense? He was Scottish, anyway, she’d heard, probably dour and disproving of her trendsetting fashions.
But most exciting of all, she had received an inquiry for a fitting from a name from the past, from long ago before so much had happened. Lillie Langtry! Lucile had heard Lillie had triumphed then crashed after a two-year affair with the Prince of Wales. Despite still being married, she had taken other lovers and borne a daughter and gone on the stage and been to the States—and now, she was coming here to be fitted for a gown. Oh, what scandal, but Lillie was a survivor, just as Lucile vowed to be. Wait until she told Elinor. Her younger sister was awash in social invitations in her new life, but Lucile Ltd. had their old idol coming to call!
“Is my new frock ready?” Elinor asked the moment she arrived. Mother was upstairs with Esme, and she didn’t ask about either of them.
“We are to dine in just two days with Daisy, the new Countess of Warwick, not far from our home,” she rushed on. “You know,” she added, lowering her voice as if one of Lucile’s seamstresses would overhear, “she’s the one who took Lillie’s place as the prince’s mistress, and she’s lasted a g
ood time longer than our Lillie’s two years. I still don’t approve of it all.”
“No, you wouldn’t. And, yes, your frock is ready.”
“I hope it has those lovely little touches of silk flowers and frills.”
“Yes, Milady Glyn.”
“That was a compliment, so don’t be prickly.”
“I’m not the one who’s prickly lately. By the way, the woman you are disparaging is coming here for a fitting.”
“Not Daisy, Lady Brooke, now Countess of Warwick! I mean, I’ve told them all at her parties that my sister designs my frocks, but—”
“Lillie. Lillie Langtry, who has made something of herself despite the men in her life. Our original ‘It’ Girl. We agreed on that.”
“Daisy Brooke Warwick is that now for me. Oh, Lucy—I mean Lucile—you should see her, meet her. So beautiful and vivacious but friendly, generous. And she entertains so lavishly. Why, she’s taken me and Clayton right in, as grand as she is. Anyway, as I said, I can’t approve of all the liaisons, and I must admit Daisy is not good at keeping hers quiet. Some call her ‘The Babbling Brooke,’ you know. But she and her husband are a firm part of the Prince of Wales’s so-called Marlborough House set. But we are now invited not to Easton near us but to Warwick Castle!”
“Talk about a babbling brook. You’ve changed, Nellie.”
“Elinor, now, and you should talk with your grand plans for Lucile Ltd. I don’t think your ambitions are limited at all. And of course I’ve changed. I’m married to a successful man with wonderful friends and—and I think I’m in a family way but I intend to lace tightly and not let my new friends know for a while, though, of course I told Clayton.”
“Oh,” Lucile said and bit back what she was going to say next. She went to hug Elinor. “When is the baby due?”
“About on our first anniversary, I guess. Clayton is elated, and understands it should not stop our mad whirl for a while. I will like the extra time to think and write, but the events in Essex are so—so wonderful.”
Lucile stepped back and loosed her. “Do take care of yourself. It’s a sea change to have a child, both physically and mentally.”
“Yes, well, I thank you for that and for running some errands for me before I return next time—or having one of your staff do it for me. I have to rush back, so—the gown?”
“Here, in tissue in this box,” she said and lifted the top off and laid the tissue back.
“Oh, Lucy—Lucile, it is exquisite, that striking peacock blue silk! You are using such dramatic colors, and this one will set off my eyes and hair. Daisy just loves the color of my hair, says she wishes she had it too, but she’s so flaxen and fair.”
Lucile almost blurted out that Elinor should have wed Daisy instead of Clayton, but then she could grasp holding on to an idol, a sort of star to light one’s way, so for once, she held her tongue.
She still was tempted, though, to tear up the list of lackey chores her sister handed her to do, as if she were her servant in all ways now. She did toss it onto the mess on her designing table, oh—right next to that calling card of Sir Cosmo Duff-Gordon. She’d been meaning to write him but didn’t care to be lectured about her expenditures the way Mr. Kennedy used to scold all of them or James had berated her. Clayton had said this man was good at finances, and she just didn’t have time for that—or him.
Even after seeing Daisy Warwick’s other splendid home, called Easton Lodge, Elinor was in awe of Warwick Castle. Of massive honey-hued stone, the huge historical building sat in the embrace of the river Avon. Ah, Shakespeare country, yet the castle had originally been located there by William the Conqueror. As passionate as she was about the medieval past and romantic ladies and knights, the castle conquered Elinor.
The most amazing thing she’d glimpsed so far was a white bear hearth rug with the animal’s head intact under an array of mounted trophy heads above them in the huge entry hall.
“You’re trembling, my dear,” Clayton said, pulling her arm closer to his ribs as they stood in the reception line of guests being greeted by Daisy.
Their luggage had been whisked up to their room straightaway from their carriage by tall, white-wigged footmen. The prince himself was in Paris, but several of his important friends, advisers, and statesmen were here, Tory politicians all, Elinor assumed.
Most of the women wore sable-trimmed velvet or brocade with low-V necklines topped by necklaces heavy with gems or dripping with pearls. Although her gown was silk, Elinor had taken a tip from something she’d heard about Lillie Langtry years ago—simplicity to stand out amid the others. Although her Lucile gown was silk, it was a simply cut, stunning peacock blue accented by a single cameo and small pearl earrings.
Until she could describe all this to Lucile and, more important, record it in her diary, Elinor was all ears and eyes. Somehow, she must absolutely work all this into her novel she’d been writing, a story about a woman who visited fascinating people and places, though she’d hardly name her heroine Elinor. No, after all, the grand Tudor Queen Elizabeth herself had visited here, so she reckoned she’d just borrow that name and entitle her novel—for which she kept its progress secret even from her family for now—The Visits of Elizabeth.
Finally, they worked their way to the bewigged Groom of the Chambers, who announced their names in a ringing, deep voice to the Count and Countess of Warwick.
“Dear friend, how lovely you look!” Daisy cried when she saw her and even stooped to give her a kiss on the cheek. She smelled of lavender powder—and power. But charm, too. Daisy might spend a fortune to entertain, but she had a heart for the little people of her world too. Not that Elinor and Clayton were one of the tenant farmers or downstairs folk. She, thanks to Clayton, was climbing the social ladder and loved every moment of it.
“What a wonderful home you have made this historic house,” Elinor told her, one of the opening remarks she’d rehearsed. It was true, though the vast gold-and-white grand saloon, hung heavy with painted portraits and tapestries, hardly seemed homey.
“Truth is,” she whispered in Elinor’s ear, “tradition rules here, not me. But it’s all part of the bargain.” Then she asked, “So—Clayton and dear friend, have you two met Lord Curzon?” She motioned to the person in line behind them. “My favorite, brilliant man, who will help guide our empire in the future through its foreign endeavors. George, Lord Curzon, may I present neighbors of ours in Essex, Clayton and Elinor Glyn?”
Elinor turned and met the magnetic, assessing stare of a man standing so upright and stiff he was surely a former military man. They exchanged greetings and pleasantries and chatted. His eyes glanced at Elinor, her hair, her gown, even as he spoke politely with Clayton. Then he moved on.
“Oh, he’s going places all right,” Clayton muttered. “You think I’m a great traveler, that man’s been everywhere and to the most odd, exotic places.”
“Really? I still long to see Egypt.”
“You will. But about that avid-eyed hawk, you’ve heard that bit of schoolboy doggerel about him, haven’t you? Best put it in your diary and remember it if he looks you over like a side of beef again.”
“Clayton! But no, what doggerel?” she asked, as she put her hand on his arm. “Something dreadfully mean, I suppose.”
Clayton rolled his eyes and recited in a quiet voice as they moved farther into the vast room,
“My name is George Nathaniel Curzon,
I am a most superior person.
My cheek is pink, my hair is sleek,
I dine at Blenheim once a week.”
“Oh my. Blenheim, the ultimate in social invitations and,” she whispered back, “I heard it would make Warwick look like a doll’s house. That satire was a bit cruel, but it shows Curzon’s superior breeding and importance.”
“We’d best steer clear of him, if we can. By the way, he’s wed to one of those rich American heiresses, though I don’t know where he’s stashed her for this. Mary something, not a home-grown English heiress like Da
isy. Lord Salisbury’s named him undersecretary for India, though, and I hear he likes it there.”
Clayton indeed steered her sharply away from Lord Curzon, who was chatting with a cluster of people. But undersecretary for India, Elinor thought. That at least sounded so romantic about that rather stiff, cold man. She’d just forget that strange combination of icy and burning look he gave her and enjoy this castle. My, how blessed she was to have wed Clayton Glyn.
“I adore your brilliant color combinations,” Lillie Langtry said, fingering through the samples Lucile displayed for her. “Who would think of scarlet, viridian, tyrian purple, jade, and gold, as you call them? What hue do you think I could best carry off?”
“I think you could carry off anything in any hue you choose,” Lucile told her. “I know you won’t recall this,” she went on in a rush, “but once on Jersey, when you returned to Government House for a reception, you and the governor’s wife came into the ladies’ cloakroom, and there were two girls hiding under the mirrored table.”
“Yes. Yes, I recall that. It seems ages ago. And someone told you of it and—Or is it that you are one of those girls?” She broke into a beautiful smile, and a faraway look misted her eyes. “Not a bit afraid were you? I toasted you with my champagne . . .”
“Yes! Yes, my younger sister and me, and you said we would make something of ourselves, and we believed you!”
“And here you are!” Lillie said and held Lucile off at arm’s length with her hands firm on her shoulders as if to look her over once again.
“Yes, doing what I love and working for better.”
“Don’t we all, my dear—work and hope for better? Forgive me, but I believe someone said you are divorced.”
“I—well, I will be soon. He deserted me and my daughter. But I’ve waited a while to sue because of the steep fees.”
“So here we are, sisters under the skin; I too am not divorced yet,” Lillie said, loosing Lucile’s shoulders and stepping back, one fist perched on her tiny waist. “But everyone high and low knows I’ve been left in the lurch when I had my daughter. Perhaps we both shall win someday. Meanwhile, I have new friends, I have the stage and own racehorses, too. You haven’t—haven’t been on the stage?”
