Lords of Passion

by Virginia Henley

  “Ow! Blasted wench! What kind of a show are you running here, Shaw?”

  “Forgive Fairuza, Lord Pomeroy. She’s dreadfully clumsy. Apologize, my dear.”

  “I will not. He put hands on gluteus maximus.”

  “Did he?” Darius’s face darkened. “You may touch the merchandise, Lord Pomeroy, but not my love-slave.”

  “I’ll buy her from you, Shaw. Teach her a lesson. It’s a wonder you can stand her impudence.”

  “My master insists upon my impudence, Lord Pomeroy. Every morning. Every night. Sometimes at luncheon, too.” Laughter rippled around the room.

  “Fairuza,” Darius said, a warning note in his voice. “I’m afraid my love-slave has an imprecise understanding of our language, gentlemen, which is why I asked her not to speak.”

  Pru resisted the urge to rip off her veil and spit in Lord Pomeroy’s face. Instead, she lowered her eyes. “I will do as my master says. Always. Many times.”

  “Forget the doll, Shaw. What will you take for the fair Fairuza?” This from a drunken buck who looked much too young to be present. Murmurs of approval from his party emboldened him. “One thousand pounds!”

  “Two!” came from the back of the parlor.

  Darius pounded his gavel but could not bring the room back to order. Bids on her were coming in fast and furious. For the first time this evening, Pru felt some misgivings about the game she played. She looked helplessly at Darius, who had turned very pale at his podium.

  “Be the quiet, all of you!” she shrieked. “I not for sale. I love my master and would scratch out the eyes and tear off the balls of you English pigs.”

  This did not bring her the results she hoped for. True, a hush had fallen over the room as she began her tirade, but the men’s moods turned ugly at the insult to their heritage.

  “How do you know she’s not a heathen spy, Shaw? Why, she could be planning your murder right now!”

  “I kill no one, only the chickens in my village,” Pru said. “I no spy.” She clutched the hideous doll tighter, as if it would come to life and defend her.

  “She’s probably as ugly as a pig herself,” Lord Pomeroy said. “No wonder she has to wear a veil.”

  Darius rapped the gavel so hard its head flew off into the front row, narrowly missing Baron Davies. “Gentlemen, gentlemen. Calm yourselves. I assure you Fairuza is not worth your astronomical offers, and you are right—she is as ugly as sin. No man can look at her face and live, which is why I have to put a sack on her head when we are impudent. Now then, back to this exceptional doll, which promises only pleasure and no pain of ever listening to a tiresome woman’s complaints. Fairuza, step back up here so all our guests can have an equal opportunity to inspect this masterpiece. Now.”

  Pru flinched at the order, but had to believe he wanted her near to protect her from the near-riot she’d started.

  And she’d told the whole room she loved him, whereas he’d said she was an ugly pig. She’d spoken the truth. Had he?

  When she got close enough, Darius snatched the doll away from her and propped it back in its box. “What in God’s name are you thinking?” he asked through clenched teeth. “We’re almost home free.”

  “A sack over my head?” Pru countered.

  “Do you want them to beg to see you, you stupid woman? You were a hair’s breath away from being stripped!”

  “So what if I was? I’ll never see these wretched men again!”

  “No you won’t. I won’t permit it. When we marry I’m going to lock you up!”

  “Lock me up?” Pru’s mouth snapped shut. What had he said?

  “And throw away the key. Maybe I’ll let you out for Christmas.”

  One of the men rose from his gilt chair. “Shaw! I’ve got a pretty whore waiting for me. Let’s get on with this.”

  “Then what do you want a rag doll for, eh? Why, the man who buys this might as well take out an advertisement in the Times that he can’t get a real woman,” sneered Pomeroy.

  “Bloody hell,” Darius muttered. “Now look what you’ve done. They’re thinking with the wrong head.”

  Pru stood frozen next to Darius as he tried to spin his auction out of its grave. She heard snatches of “convenient” and “loyal,” but paid them no mind. He wanted to marry her? If she was not entirely mistaken, he had just proposed in a rather threatening manner. She had not as yet accepted, however.

  “And so, even if this magnificent work of art simply sits in a darkened closet, know that you have shown yourself to be a man of impeccable taste and perspicacious acumen. The ancient coins alone on the ankle bracelet are worth something,” Darius said with mounting desperation.

  “Two pounds, and that’s my final offer,” said the elderly Marquess of Huntington. “A man my age is lucky to dip his wick into a knothole in the wall. This doll will do as well.”

  “Sold,” Darius said, tapping the gavel stem against the podium. A cheer went up and then it seemed all hell broke loose. Darius held her arm as the men disappeared noisily into the night, clutching Malcolm’s inexpertly wrapped brown parcels. Pru surveyed the wreckage of the room—overturned spindly chairs, broken wineglasses, smoking cigar butts in ash trays. Each one of Darius’s fingertips was burning into her bare arm.

  “We need to talk.”

  Pru extricated herself from his grip. “You need to go to bed. You’re dead on your feet.”

  “Not. Dead. Yet. No thanks to you.” Darius swayed and reached out to his auctioneer’s block.

  Pru caught him before he went down, squeezing him against her artificial breasts. He was too large for her to hold up for long. “Malcolm! Come help me!”

  Malcolm emerged from the hallway, moving so quickly he must have forgotten he had a bad leg. “I’ve got him now, Mrs. Thorne.” He wrapped his arm around Darius’s back. “Come on, laddie. I’ve got a bucket full of pounds and all the I.O.U.s you could ask for. It’s time to relax.”

  “I want to count it all,” Darius said, stubborn.

  “And so you shall, once you’re safe in bed. Mrs. Thorne, bring up the cashbox.”

  Pru tore off her veil and followed the men as they lurched up to the bedroom. Her eyes were beginning to water from the makeup, but she didn’t have time to scrub her face. She could, however, dispose of the padding in her bodice, and left a trail of crumpled tissue paper all the way up the stairs.

  Darius fell into bed as if he were pole-axed. Malcolm removed his boots and loosened his neckcloth while he lay almost insensate on top of the poodles.

  “You should have never come down,” Pru scolded.

  “And if I hadn’t, you would have been carried off into some lord’s harem, Fairuza.”

  “Nonsense. Englishmen don’t keep harems. And anyway, Malcolm would have protected me.”

  The valet cum butler cum cook nodded and lit more lamps. “Aye. And so I would have. But you must admit the guv here has a way with words. Squeezed those toffs for every penny and then some.”

  Darius gave a lopsided smile. “I’d count myself, but I don’t think I can sit up. How much did we make, Pru?”

  She didn’t miss the “we,” but didn’t trust herself to speak yet of their apparent engagement. “Malcolm, perhaps you should bring Mr. Shaw something cold to drink. Not champagne. Some fruit juice perhaps? And something light to eat. A scrambled egg. One for me, too. This love-slave business is hungry work.”

  “Coming right up. You’ll call for me if you need me?”

  Pru nodded. When Malcolm closed the door behind him, Pru sat on the bed and unbuttoned Darius’s shirt. She laid a hand on his throat. And frowned. “You’re very hot again.”

  “More than you know. What’s happened to your chest?”

  “I am back to normal. Or abnormal.”

  “There is not a thing wrong with your breasts. They’re lovely. Perfect.”

  “You are ill.”

  “I am, but there’s nothing wrong with my mind. Unlike my customers, I know good value when I see it. T
hat doll should have fetched more than two pounds,” Darius grumbled.

  “It was an abomination. I could not have slept in this house knowing it was here.”

  “It’s been here the whole time you have, Pru.”

  “In its coffin. When you took it out, I was absolutely appalled. Wherever did you get it?”

  “An old Egyptian woman made it for me.”

  “You commissioned it?”

  “I thought it was a good idea at the time. A bit of a lark—a silent, pliant woman. A true rarity.”

  Pru shuddered. “Well, if that’s what you want, why did you ask me to marry you?”

  “I did, didn’t I? I apologize if I wasn’t on bended knee. I don’t believe I could have gotten up once I got down.”

  “You were serious?”

  “I believe so. I’ve never asked a woman to marry me before.”

  “You didn’t precisely ask. Though you did mention imprisoning me.”

  “Some women feel that marriage is a cage.” Darius took her hand, absently fingering the diamond on her ring. “I would never clip your wings, Pru. You’d keep your own money—that’s why tonight was so important. If I’m going to take a wife, I need to support her. I’m not a fortune hunter like my brother.”

  “What about the sheep?”

  “Oh, I hope there will be enough left over for a lamb or two. Will you, Pru? Will you marry me? I must warn you—I’ll probably get sick again. Malcolm says I snore.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve done things I’m not proud of. Slept with too many women, but you’re the only one I want for the rest of my life.”

  “Now is not the time for honesty, you stupid man.” She bent to kiss him and do a little bit more, and stopped only when the eggs arrived.

  “Well?” asked Malcolm as he dropped the tray next to the bed. “How much is in the kitty? I want my back wages.”

  Pru was as warm as her fiancé. She straightened her loose bodice and folded her hands in her silk-clad lap. “I’m afraid we haven’t gotten around to counting it yet.”

  “What have you been doing all this time? Ah!” Malcolm slapped himself on his forehead. “I’ll just go then, shall I? You young people have your fun. But don’t kill him before he makes an honest woman out of you, Mrs. Thorne. The lad’s still sick.”

  “He has proposed, you know.”

  “So I expected him to. He always knows which shell holds the pearl. See you in the morning.” Malcolm whistled as he left, no sign whatsoever of any limp.

  Pru glanced down at Darius’s beaming face. “I haven’t said yes yet.”

  “But you will.”

  “I might not.”

  Darius struggled up on an elbow. “What if I tell you I love you?”

  Pru unfolded a napkin from the tray. “I might not believe you. We only met four days ago. Eat your eggs. They’ll get cold.”

  “It’s past midnight. That makes it five days.”

  Pru bit a lip. He was oh so tempting, but she had rushed into one marriage, and look where that had led her.

  Well, it had led her here, with a gorgeous, half-undressed man, a plate of untouched scrambled eggs in her lap. “It’s still too soon.”

  “Then we’ll have a long engagement. But I want us to live together. On my farm.”

  “We’ll shock the sheep, living in sin.”

  “The sheep won’t notice. We’ll stay indoors. In bed.”

  She picked up an egg-laden fork and put it down. There was no way in the world she could eat now, with her heart hammering like Darius’s gavel in her chest. “There’s more to marriage than sex, Darius.”

  “I don’t doubt it. And I expect you to school me in all of its rules and regulations. You’re a very organized woman, Pru. A woman like you could make something out of a man like me.”

  Tears blurred the pattern on her plate. “I thought you were the teacher in our arrangement.”

  “I’ve done my job. You’re in flames I kindled. You’d make any man a wonderful wife. But I want you for mine.”

  “Oh.” She put the plate back on the tray. “I’m afraid, Darius,” she whispered.

  “So am I. We can be afraid together.”

  He pulled her into his arms and held her close. She could feel the erratic beating of his heart and the heat of his body. “You’re ill. Not rational. You might be hallucinating and regret what you said in the morning.”

  “I might. But I don’t think so. When I thought those men would get their hands on you tonight, I felt something rather primal. You belong to me, even if you don’t know it yet.”

  “I do?” she asked doubtfully.

  “You do. But I’ll give you all the time you need. I can’t promise to be a model citizen always, but that’s probably best—you’ll get to know me, warts and all. Just don’t leave me, my love. I really couldn’t bear that.”

  Pru pictured them in a tidy manor house, roses creeping over the studded doorway. Sheep on the front lawn. A garden in the rear, fenced so the bloody animals would not eat her prize specimens. A child, if they were lucky. A friendly sheepdog at the very least.

  “I’ll give you six months to woo me.”

  He was so quiet she thought he had fallen asleep. She lifted her head to see his eyes closed, a satisfied smile on his face. The wretch! Here she was, giving her heart away again, and he—

  And then he spoke, the smile still in his voice. “That sounds reasonable. We’ll have a Christmas wedding. At least I won’t forget our anniversary.”

  Pru settled back into his arms. “I wouldn’t let you.”

  “No,” Darius sighed happily. “I’ll be hen-pecked near to death.”

  “And you’ll like it.”

  “I believe I will.”

  Epilogue

  Six months later, Mrs. Prudence Jane Thorne, née Prescott, and Mr. Darius Alexander Shaw of Roselynn Farm, Piddletrenthide, Dorset, were married by special license in All Saints Church after the Christmas Eve service, the only witnesses their butler Malcolm and housekeeper Lottie Eldridge. The vicar rushed through the secret ceremony, shocked as he was to discover his new neighbors had deceived everyone in the county, dismayed that the anticipation of their wedding vows had resulted in a very voluminous bulge to the new Mrs. Shaw’s skirts, and already exhausted from thinking about preaching again tomorrow.

  The newlyweds had gone about this all wrong in his opinion, but then the world was full of sin, ensuring he’d have his work cut out for him forever. But Mr. Shaw had offered money for the repair of the church tower, and Mrs. Shaw arranged lovely flowers and greens from her garden for the altar, and it was Christmas, so he was in a forgiving mood. Better late than never, and they did seem sincerely penitent for their reluctance to wed and awfully lovey-dovey—their devotion was almost unnatural.

  God moved in mysterious ways. Almost as mysterious was the unusual ring Mrs. Shaw wore to pledge her troth, which had caused a few local tongues to wag when they first saw its size and sparkle. But the woman was fond of her flowers, and claimed the design was some exotic plant her husband had seen in his travels. It was a bit garish for a gentleman farmer’s wife, but it really was none of the vicar’s business.