by M. C. Beaton
“Mr. and Mrs. Witherspoon,” announced a servant.
Lucy stared at her husband uncertainly. Then, “Pooh!” she said, shrugging a muslin shoulder, and went off impatiently to see the Witherspoons. Really, they were the outside of enough. She must tell the servants not to admit them.
The Witherspoons had their customary leer pinned on their large faces, but for once it did not reach up to their eyes. They had received snub after snub since their return from Brussels. Money they had in plenty. But what they desired was social acceptance and they were prepared to get it any way they could.
After the tea tray had been brought in and social chit-chat exchanged, Mr. Witherspoon fixed Lucy with a steely gaze and said, “I fear Lady Challenge has forgotten the great service we did her in getting you out of Brussels. Begging and crying and pleading you were. ‘What about your husband?’ asks one lady. ‘Oh, I don’t care,’ you says. ‘Freddie can take care of himself.’ Tut-tut. Society don’t like that kind of behavior, Mrs. Godwin.”
Lucy sat very still. Society had indeed begun to circulate stories of those who had fled from Brussels, leaving their men to die on the battlefield. If the Witherspoons circulated such a story, she would be socially damned, and some of her best and brightest flirts were among the military.
“But you have not told anyone since we are friends,” she said at last with a lightness she did not feel.
“Not yet.” The two words fell, carefully measured, into the hot, still room.
“I am grateful to you for all you have done. Do you want money?” asked Lucy hopefully.
Mr. Witherspoon shook his head while his wife munched cake after cake, her eyes never leaving Lucy’s face.
“It is not your gratitude we want,” said Mr. Witherspoon. “We want Lady Challenge’s gratitude. She is all the crack now, and it would be deemed a mark of distinction if we could be seen abroad with her. You must remind her of her social obligation.”
“Oh, very well,” said Lucy pettishly.
“See that you do,” said Mr. Witherspoon. “Just see that you do.”
“You are looking particularly dowdy tonight, my love,” remarked Lord Hubert Challenge to his wife as they faced each other down the length of the dining table.
Mary looked down guiltily at her dress. It was of gray silk in an old-fashioned mode, with a high-neck and long tight sleeves. She had suddenly been terrified of the night to come and had chosen the most repelling gown she could find.
“Do you wish me to change my clothes?” she asked.
“No,” remarked Lord Hubert lazily. “Just take them off. What’s the matter Biggs? Got a cold?”
“No, my lord. Must have burnt me hand on this ’ere chafing dish.”
“Then we are quite well able to serve ourselves. You may go to the kitchens and have it attended to and… er… Biggs.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Don’t come back, there’s a good fellow.”
“Monstrous!” cried Mary after Biggs had gone. “To make such remarks, and in front of a servant too!”
“You drive me to it, Mary,” he said, his eyes mocking her. “Miss Prunes and Prisms. You are so easily shocked.”
Mary gulped at her wine and picking up the decanter, poured herself another glass.
Lord Hubert’s black brows rose in surprise. “Does your mother drink? Or your father?”
“Of course,” snapped Mary.
“I mean to excess.”
“No.”
“Splendid. I was beginning to fear you had inherited one of the Fatal Tendencies. Come and kiss me.”
Mary put down her glass. She was too frightened. Love should be a gentle and delicate minuet, not this constant assault upon the senses. She must have courage. She had been abducted, nearly raped. She had had insufficient sleep.
“Hubert,” she said desperately. “You must excuse me.”
“You have a headache, of course.”
“Oh, yes,” cried Mary, delighted to find him so reasonable.
“Then you may retire,” he rejoined equably.
She looked at him doubtfully. He had changed into evening dress although they were dining at home and looked very splendid and remote.
“And where are you going, my lord?”
“Ah,” he teased. “That is my secret. Come and kiss me, Mary!”
She walked slowly towards him. He lay back in his chair, his eyes glinting up at her from under their heavy lashes. She looked down at him and then stooped to plant a brief kiss on his cheek. He turned his head abruptly so that the kiss fell full on his mouth, and his lips seemed to cling and burn although he did not raise his hands to touch her. She stayed there for a long time, imprisoned by his kiss, feeling her head reel.
Finally he held her away from him with gentle hands.
“Go to bed, Mary,” he said quietly.
She hung her head and walked slowly away, feeling bitterly disappointed. Now that he was obviously not going to spend the night with her, she wanted his body pressed against her own more than anything in the world.
Juneaux chattered away as she unpinned her mistress’s hair and prepared her for bed, but Mary only replied in mono-syllables, her mind busy with the problem of her husband.
When Juneaux had gone, Mary climbed into bed and stared sightlessly at the canopy. The room was uncomfortably warm and sticky and smelled of sugar and vinegar from the gallipots. She threw back the blankets and restlessly stretched her legs. The flame of the candle beside the bed burned clear and straight without a flicker.
“It is not my fault,” she whispered to the uncaring shadows. “It is too soon. I have known no courtship. I am frightened. But I need not be frightened for he will not come this night.”
Two restless hours later she heard his steps in the corridor outside and stiffened against the pillows. But he walked past the door of her room without a pause and seconds later she heard the door of his bedroom close.
She bit her lip, suddenly troubled. She could not expect a man of his caliber to remain celibate. He would soon find consolation elsewhere. She had a vivid picture of Clarissa, lying back in his arms, and she groaned aloud. Was she, Mary, less of a woman than Clarissa? No! But a very inexperienced one, whispered a frightened voice in her brain.
Another hour passed while she tossed and turned fretfully. At last, she slowly climbed down from the bed. She would just look in at his bedroom. There was no harm in that. If he was awake, they could talk and perhaps she could explain her fears.
She gently pushed open the door to his bedroom and went in.
The bed curtains were drawn back and he was sprawled back against the pillows, fast asleep. The blankets were thrown onto the floor, where they lay in a tangled knot. He was stark naked, the faint yellow light from the oil lamp outside the window gleaming on the muscles of his back, which was turned to her.
She took a hurried step backwards and then stopped. He was asleep after all. He did not look so terrifying naked, nor so shocking as she had thought. His face probably looked softer and younger in repose, she thought.
She tiptoed forwards holding her bed candle high and bent over him. The long lashes lay on his cheek softening the harsh lean lines of his face. His long, mobile, sensuous mouth was curved in a half smile and the white-muscled column of his throat rose above the dark hair of his chest. As she bent over him, a drop of hot wax from the candle fell on his shoulder and his eyes flew open.
She retreated hurriedly. “I had a nightmare,” she whispered. He reached out a strong white hand and pulled her roughly into bed, and then rolled over on top of her.
“Let me up,” she breathed. “A nightmare, yes, that’s what it was.”
He did not seem to hear her. His eyelids half closed, he simply began to kiss her, slowly and lingeringly until she groaned against his mouth. His lips moved downwards across her body, burning through the thin material of her nightgown, caressing and teasing, while his long strong fingers roved and probed. He made love to her sl
owly, sensuously and lingeringly, with a single-minded absorption, until she was digging her nails into his back and crying out for she knew not what.
When he at last moved inside her, the bed began to creak alarmingly like a ship in a high storm, and she had a sudden, panicky feeling, “What on earth will the servants think?” before her senses took over and she was never to know that even her delirious cry of fulfillment went unnoticed by everyone except Biggs, who opened the window and shied his army boots at a perfectly innocent cat who had not said a word.
When she awoke, dawn was pearling the sky and the watch was crying five o’clock. He was sprawled across her body and awoke the minute she moved and smiled down at her, his eyes very wide and tender. “What are you thinking of, my sweet?” he whispered.
“I am worried about the servants,” said Mary anxiously. “I should be so embarrassed to be found here when your man comes in with your chocolate in the morning.”
Did he look disappointed or was it a trick of the light?
“Then I shall escort you to your own room, my prude,” he said, climbing out of bed and shrugging into his dressing gown.
“You do understand,” pleaded Mary, feeling she had said entirely the wrong thing. She should have told him she loved him, which she did, but at that moment she could not bring herself to say so.
He opened the door of her bedroom and ushered her in.
“Goodnight, my sweet,” he said, looking down at her. “You kept your clothes on after all… or nearly on.”
She looked down at her crumpled nightdress and blushed. He put out a long finger and tilted her face up to his.
It seemed that seconds later she was in his arms, he was in her bed, and her nightgown lay crumpled in a ball in the corner of the room where it had been thrown by an impatient hand.
“Bleeding cats,” said Biggs, throwing up the sash and poking his rifle through the bars.
Juneaux nearly dropped her mistress’s tray of chocolate when she blithely marched into the room in the morning, stopping short in amazement at the sight of the tangled figures on the bed.
Pursing her lips in disapproval, she turned about and marched out. The English were so indecorous!
“Hubert, it is noon,” wailed Mary some time later. “Oh, my goodness, Juneaux must have seen us.”
“Fascinating,” said her lord lazily. “You blush all over. Noon is it? Then let us celebrate the dawning of the afternoon.”
“Oh, Hubert. No, we can’t possibly…”
“Darling!”
“Oh, Hubert!”
Two hours later, Mary awoke feeling dizzy and light-headed.
“Hubert. I am so hungry.”
“A healthy sign. So am I. I shall eat your left ear.”
“Please don’t, darling. This is impossible. You know quite well I did not mean that sort of hunger. My lord, I pray you listen to me. Only think of the servants. Only think of the… Oh, Hubert…”
They did not eat till dinner time. Served by an indulgent and cheerful Biggs, they made but poor work of their evening meal, drinking more than they should and staring into each other’s eyes in sleepy fascination.
“We shall give a party,” said Mary, slightly tipsily. “An Impromptu Party. We shall invite everyone. A great, big, beautiful party.”
“A party you shall have,” said Hubert sleepily. “See that you are not overworked, Biggs!”
“No, my lord. It’ll be like a campaign,” said Biggs cheerfully. “I’ll leave my lord and my lady to their wine.”
He went out and quietly closed the door.
Hubert flashed a wicked smile down the table at his wife. “Come and kiss me, Mary.”
And she did. Long into the night while the candles burned down and the untouched food congealed on the table, and the tactful servants stayed belowstairs and Biggs laid wagers on his lordship’s stamina.
Chapter 6
Lucy Godwin paced nervously up and down Mary’s drawing room, the sarcanet flounces of her gown swishing over the carpet.
“I declare, Mary,” said Lucy coming to a halt. “It is too vexing of you. Too monstrous thoughtless. Why did you not send the Witherspoons a card to your rout?”
“It is an informal, impromptu party, Lucy,” said Mary gently. “They really only like grand affairs. I am obliged to them for their kind offices in Brussels but, in all faith, I cannot like them.”
“Like them?” sneered Lucy awfully. “When did one ever have to like people to invite them? I tell you this, if you do not invite them, they will tell the world and his wife that I abandoned poor Freddie on the battlefield.”
“You imagine things. Surely they would not say so.”
“Oh, yes they would,” cried Lucy pettishly. “I shall be socially ruined and it’s all your fault. You p-promised Freddie you’d take care of me.”
“Only in his absence.”
Lucy burst into noisy tears. “I think you’re horrid,” she sobbed.
“Very well then,” said Mary on a sigh. She was so happy she could not bear to see anyone else unhappy. “I shall send them a card. But will they not be insulted? The party is this very evening after all.”
“Oh, no,” said Lucy cynically, her tears drying like magic, “so long as they are invited.”
She slid a curious look at Mary’s radiant face, out of the corner of her eyes. “I declare I am surprised you should condone the presence of Lady Clarissa and her fiancé, Lord Peregrine.”
“You must be mistaken,” said Mary coldly. “I sent no invitation.”
“Really,” said Lucy with a little titter. “I would ask dear Lord Hubert about it. Good-bye, dear.”
She kissed the air somewhere in the region of Mary’s cheek and floated out.
Mary went in search of her husband. He was sitting in his study brooding over a glass of madeira and nursing a blinding headache. That morning, while Mary lay asleep, recuperating after another energetic night, he found himself strangely restless. He had gone out riding and had come across an old friend he had thought dead on the battlefield of Waterloo. They had gone off to celebrate too much, and too wildly. He had returned to find his house in an uproar. Decorators were draping the saloons in swathes of silk. Footmen were staggering around with potted plants. Strange housemaids hired for the occasion were flirting shrilly with his military servants and nowhere could he find peace except in his study. He slammed the shutters closed and decided to have a glass of wine, and then an hour’s sleep, before preparing for the rigors of the evening.
He winced as his wife crashed through the door, two bright spots of color burning on her cheek.
“Did you or did you not invite Clarissa and Perry?” she stormed.
“Yes,” he said, “and don’t shout!”
“Is this some mad joke?” asked Mary, staring at him with hauteur. “I would have thought that Lord Peregrine would have taken himself out of the country.”
“He had no need,” said Hubert curtly, suddenly disliking his wife excrutiatingly. “He knew I did not want your name dragged into any scandal. I have no further quarrel with either of them. He called on me and explained in a very gentlemanly fashion that he had been driven insane with jealousy.”
“You should have horsewhipped him,” shouted Mary.
Hubert clutched his fevered forehead and groaned. “Leave me alone, Mary. My hea…”
“No I will not leave you alone. You will send a footman round to Lady Clarissa immediately cancelling the invitation. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you, madam. The whole of St. James’s can hear you, dammit.”
“I order you…”
She broke off as he sprang wrathfully to his feet. “You order me. Who in hell do you think you are? Get out of here before I slap you to your senses.”
“You’re a monster,” screamed Mary, jumping up and down. “And… and… your nose is too big.”
There was a shocked silence.
He stalked to the mirror over the mantle and twisted his head from si
de to side.
“It is a splendid nose,” he pronounced at last.
“It’s big! It’s enormous! I hate it,” Mary screamed even louder, quite beside herself.
“It is a fine example of an aristocratic nose,” he said, glaring at her. “I do not have a common feature in my face—unlike yours.”
“What is wrong with my face?”
“You’ve got a great long trap of a mouth. Vulgar, common, faugh!”
“Eh hiv nit,” piped Mary pursing her lips into as small a shape as she could manage.
“And talking of being common,” pursued Hubert. “Why not ask your so dear friends the Witherspoons.”
“I will do that directly.” Mary burst into noisy tears and fled from the room, crashing the door so violently so that it rocked on its hinges.
She rushed to her writing desk and scrawled a fulsome invitation to the Witherspoons and sent it off by hand. She then scrambled up the stairs to her bedroom where she lay on the bed and cried her eyes out. She thought she heard her husband’s footsteps outside the door, so she cried even louder but all she heard in reply was the slamming of his bedroom door.
Why did I ever get married? thought Hubert as he buried his face in his pillows. Suffocating, demanding women! This rout would be a disaster. She was overworking the servants. Biggs was in a shaky condition with that ball in his chest. He would die. And it would be Mary’s fault. And so he would tell her. And with that comforting thought, he fell asleep.
When he awoke, it was already dark. The sound of music filtered up the stairs and he sat up in alarm and, lighting the candle, peered at his watch. Ten o’clock! Why had no one wakened him?
Then he remembered the insane quarrel of the afternoon. He wondered if they had both been mad. He rang for his valet.
“Tell me Mr. Jones,” he said silkily. “Why was I not aroused? Am I not to greet my own guests?”
“Her ladyship gave strict instructions that you were not to be disturbed on account of you having the headache,” said his valet nervously, scurrying to lay out his evening clothes.
“She did, did she?” snapped Hubert, all his irrational hatred returning. “No, lay out my dress uniform. I shall not look like a crow this evening.”
