What could Ben say? He was well aware of the caprices of the Royal Family, from those of the mad King George III downwards. Clarence was brave, choleric—and irresponsible. He might forget immediately what he had promised—but he might not. Everything and nothing was possible.
So he bowed, and murmured, ‘I shall not forget your kindness, sir.’
‘See that you do not, what? See that you do not! And hello to you, Devereux,’ he said to Jack. who was standing beside Ben, before calling to his equerry who had been standing at a respectful distance. ‘Time to leave, I have had my fun. Fronsac may give me another lesson on another day.’
Jack murmured in Ben’s ear, ‘Put not your trust in princes, Ben. He’ll probably forget you before he climbs into his coach. On the other hand, Clarence is the best of a bad lot. And before I forget, why did you trick me into believing you a relative novice with the foils? Fronsac tells me that one of your moves was a favourite of his old master Jean Dupuy, and that if he taught it to you he thought you were something of a master, too, because only a master could perform it. Is Fronsac right?’
Ben shrugged a little shamefacedly. ‘A man does not confess to everything he knows—or can do—if he is wise. You should know that, Jack. As for Dupuy, he ended up in India teaching anyone who would learn. I was one of those who wished to.’
‘I’ll remember that the next time we practise together—for I shall give you no leeway at all. I was easy with you—but never no more—that I promise.’
‘I shan’t come to Fronsac’s again,’ said Ben dourly. ‘I lost my temper, and I don’t care to put myself in the way of doing so again.’
‘Fool’s talk,’ said Jack rudely. ‘Don’t let the smug swine who run London society drive you away. Take no notice of them. I never do.’
This was so patently true and was said in Jack’s most aggressive manner, which drove Ben’s megrims away and set him laughing.
‘Well, I see that I cannot play the coward when you do not, so I’ll withdraw my resolution.’
‘Then we may still be friends. I see that that cub you’ve just thrashed is sulking in a corner. He grows more like his father every day. A word of warning, Ben, Babbacombe is dangerous because he is stupid. Guard your back against the bludgeoneers.’
‘You have heard something?’ asked Ben quickly, thinking of the recent attack on him.
Jack shook his head. ‘No, I only have my hard-earned knowledge of the world and the fools and knaves who live in it to guide me. I see that you have agreed to employ a bodyguard—most wise of you. But remember, a man may be attacked in other ways than the physical.’
Jack Devereux was a good friend, and would also be a dangerous enemy, thought Ben as he was driven to Madame’s once his session at Fronsac’s was over. He had tickets for a performance at Astley’s Amphitheatre and thought that Susanna—and Madame—might be pleased to accompany him. These days it was always Susanna he thought of first.
In fact, if he were truthful he thought of her first, last and always—a new thing for him.
Madame, the butler informed him, was not at home, but Miss Beverly was, and he would ask if she were prepared to receive him.
Ben stood in the grand hallway with its black and white flagged tiles and its vases of flowers on tall occasional tables, hoping against hope that Susanna would break all the rules of conduct and entertain a single gentleman on her own. The expression on the butler’s face when he returned gave nothing away.
He put out a hand for the hat which Ben was holding and enunciated clearly and disapprovingly, ‘Miss Beverly will receive you, sir, in the small drawing room. Please follow me.’
His heart beating violently, Ben allowed himself to be ushered into the room where Susanna rose from her chair after putting down the book which she had been reading. She looked so enchanting that Ben could barely wait for the butler to leave before he told her so.
Susanna, her own heart bumping in the most alarming way—for was she not breaking every rule by which she had lived all her life?—said as soberly as she could when he had finished, ‘You need not flatter me, Ben. I am dressed quite simply because I did not foresee that I should have company this afternoon—Madame has gone to the French Embassy to visit an old friend.’
‘Then you should always dress simply,’ declared Ben in his usual downright fashion, ‘for it suits you even more than dressing grandly does—and I must thank you for receiving me when you are on your own.’
‘More flattery—’ Susanna smiled, ‘—and, seeing that we are now old friends, I have allowed myself the luxury of your presence.’
Ben could not help himself. The sight of her in her plain white muslin gown with its pale blue ribbons and its modest high neck, her hair dressed simply, so that one curl was allowed to coil around her graceful neck, was having the most disturbing effect on him, so that he blurted out, ‘Friends! I should hope that we are more than that!’
And then, as she offered him a dazzling smile, he continued, the words pouring from him like water cascading downwards, out of control, ‘Marry me, Susanna, at once, or I shall immediately expire, or dissolve spontaneously into a flaming pyre like the ones on to which Indian ladies fling themselves after their husbands’ death.’
This extraordinary proposal, totally unlike anything which a young gentlewoman of quality ought to expect, might have overset many young women, but it was so like the man making it in its downright extravagance, that it had no such effect on Susanna.
‘Do but consider what you are saying, Ben! Did you really come here this afternoon to propose to me?’
‘No,’ he said, all sense deserting him, aware only that he would go mad if somehow or other he did not get her into his bed. ‘Not at all, but the sight of you provoked me to it. Have you no notion of the effect which you have on me? Have had since I first clapped eyes on you. Only the presence of Madame in the past and now the conventions which bind us both in the present are preventing me from falling on you and physically demonstrating the passion which I have come to feel for you. It is highly inconvenient—particularly since you are not at all the kind of young person whom I have always thought of marrying!’
As soon as he had finished speaking, Ben knew that he must have dished himself by being so tactlessly truthful. Yes, he had thought that he would marry a biddable, pampered young woman whom he could shape and mould to his heart’s desire, not someone like Susanna whose character and temperament had been sharpened and strengthened by the troubles through which she had passed—but he shouldn’t have said so.
Before she could answer him he apologised humbly, ‘Forgive me, that was no way to speak to the lady whom I have come to desire beyond reason, but I have been a blunt man all my life, and it is difficult for me to change now.’
Susanna, her whole body singing a triumphant song, yet could not contain her amusement at her suitor’s bluff and brusque proposal.
‘Why should I wish you to change?’ she enquired sweetly. ‘I like you as you are. I admit that you could have made me a more elegant proposal. There are women who might be offended on learning that their suitor thought his passion for them to be inconvenient, but I am not one of them. In return, may I inform you that you are the last man I could ever have imagined either proposing to me at all, or to whom I could consider giving a favourable answer—which makes the fact that I am about to say “yes” to you even more remarkable. I once thought Francis Sylvester to be the kind of paragon whom I would wish to marry—and I cannot imagine anyone more unlike you than he is!’
Ben stood dazed, trying to work out exactly what she was saying to him. ‘Do I infer that you are accepting me?’ he came out with. ‘If so, your answer is a good match for mine in its crossgrainedness!’
‘True,’ replied Susanna, ‘but that is probably why we shall deal well together. Who else would wish to marry either of us? Seeing what an unlikely pair we are.’
He exploded into laughter, throwing his head back, behaving as usual totally against a
ll the rules of polite society which demanded that a gentleman should never display strong emotions in public: a laugh should always be a pleasantly controlled thing—if one had to laugh at all, that was. Susanna’s amusement at his frank enjoyment of her saucy sally set her laughing, too.
Wiping the tears from her eyes, she said, ‘Oh, dear, now you have set me off as well. The late Lord Chesterfield would have been most ashamed of us.’
‘Why so?’ asked Ben curiously, his life not having been spent in reading elegantly phrased letters by elegantly living peers.
‘He wrote letters to his son on how a gentleman ought to behave in which, among other things, he said that no true gentleman—and presumably gentlewoman—ever laughs aloud. The letters were published because it was believed that his advice on etiquette was so wise that all the world ought to know of it.’
Ben thought for a moment before answering her. Then, ‘You really ought to marry me, if only because you know so much of these matters and I know so little. Between us you could turn me into a paragon who would know everything about Prince Hamlet and when to simper rather than laugh aloud.’
Susanna shook her head. ‘Not at all. I much prefer you as you are. If I had wanted to marry a simpering gentleman, I should have accepted Francis Sylvester’s second proposal.’
‘Does that mean that you have accepted my second proposal?’
‘I think so.’
‘That is not an answer which a man of business like myself understands.’
‘Which is precisely why I made it.’
Her face on throwing this conversational titbit at him was so piquante and alight with mischief that Ben’s self-control flew away. He gave a little groan—and swept her into his arms.
His little groan was matched by her little cry on finding herself brought smack up against his broad chest.
He brought his mouth down on hers with a movement so swift that there was no stopping him. Susanna’s heart beat rapidly as a consequence of fear as well as of passion. He was so big and strong, such a bear of a man, that she was momentarily afraid that his lovemaking would be as fierce as his name and appearance.
But no such thing. His mouth on hers was so tender and gentle, the big hands which rose to cup her face were so delicate in their handling of it that fright flew away and only passion reigned supreme. She moaned again and raised her own hand to stroke his face, letting her fingers run along his jaw in line with the shadow of his beard which grew so rapidly that by evening he was compelled to shave again.
And then delicately, oh so delicately, his mouth teased hers open and Susanna was ready to swoon when his tongue met hers and made it dance in unison with his. Only the right hand that he had taken from her face in order to cup her head kept her on her feet.
Francis’s few kisses, perfunctorily snatched whenever, for a few moments, they were left alone, had not prepared her either for Ben’s lovemaking or the strength of the passion with which she responded to it.
‘Please, yes, please,’ she muttered hoarsely and knew not for what she was asking, only that there was something more to come and that by contrast with what she had already enjoyed, it would be even more powerful and fulfilling.
He dropped his mouth to the hollows of her neck and began to celebrate them; at the same time his hand began to rove down her back to the base of her spine to cup her buttocks, creating a sensation which made her writhe and twist against him.
This, in turn, had such a powerful effect on Ben that his rapidly slipping control nearly disappeared altogether, so that it was fortunate that—as though they were taking part in a bad French farce, by Marivaux, perhaps—the drawing door opened to reveal to Madame de Saulx that her two protégés were so closely entwined that they might as well have been one.
The sound of her entry and her muttered, ‘Ahem’, set them springing apart, rosy-face, dishevelled—and guilty.
Ben, who, for obvious reasons, remained half-turned away, said with great joviality as soon as he had physically recovered and had rearranged his clothing, ‘My dear Madame, you will be delighted to learn that Miss Beverly has agreed to marry me—and as soon as I can acquire a special licence—and with as little flummery as possible.’
Susanna, who had been carrying out some rearrangement herself, to Madame’s amusement riposted with, ‘Oh, I’m sure I never agreed to any of that.’
‘Indeed, but you did,’ replied Ben. ‘I distinctly remember that you said “yes”. You did qualify it by remarking that, in effect, no one else would marry either of us—but that does not affect your agreement, as I am sure Madame understands.’
‘And Madame will offer you both her congratulations,’ said that lady calmly, secretly delighted that one of her fondest wishes was coming true. ‘On mature reflection, Ben, I think that you will agree that your marriage must be no hole-in-the-corner affair, for that would reflect, not only on yourself, but on your bride. That does not mean that you must carry on as though you were one of the Royal Dukes tying the knot, simply that you must fulfil the duties which you owe to your station.’
Ben, busy thinking that hard though it might be to propose, the act of marriage itself seemed to be even harder, nodded a reluctant agreement.
‘More particularly,’ continued Madame, ignoring his reluctance, ‘since, given your present situation of being under attack from Lord Babbacombe’s spiteful accusations, you must not be seen to be afraid to appear in public.’
Susanna stifled a giggle at the expression on Ben’s face indicating that to suggest that he was afraid of anything was a statement so monstrous that it was not worth contradicting.
Madame, seeing that Susanna was now composed again, moved over to her to kiss her on the cheek and whisper congratulations to her.
‘He is a good man,’ she said, ‘and you have made a wise choice—as he has. I wish you well. You will, of course, be married from here.’
Somehow, until Madame uttered that last sentence, Susanna had not fully grasped what she had done in accepting Ben so lightly. It was as though they had been jousting with words quite bloodlessly and suddenly that joust had become a real, and not an imaginary, one and both of them had been laid low! So low that the carpet had nearly become their bed.
Thus, even before they had fully grasped what they had done, they had fallen prey to a mutual passion so profound that had Madame not arrived when she did they might have consummated it on the spot.
Did she wish to repudiate her agreement to marry him? No, she did not. Unwise it might be, but her own reactions to Ben’s caresses had shown her two things. The first was that, however fierce he might be, however like his namesake the untamed wolf which roamed the forests, in appearance and manner, his lovemaking to her had been both considerate and kind to the untried woman that he knew she must be. And secondly, her own response to it had been breathtakingly spontaneous. She had proved herself not only willing to meet and match him in the lists of love, but that she was ready to dare all in marrying him.
Their fiery coming together had shown how tepid her relationship with Francis Sylvester had been: a mere extension of friendship with no passion in it.
She was prepared to be the wolf’s mate—and would glory in being so.
Unknown to herself, her face told Madame everything. Later, alone for a few moments with Ben, she said to him with some severity in her manner, ‘You must be kind to her, mon cher. Yes, I know she is a strong woman, but it is plain that she has not known what it is to be loved and cherished and you must supply that lack.’
‘Oh, I will,’ he told her, ‘but, and I must tell you this, my own passion for her frightens me. She is so small and delicate, and I am so large. Wolfe my name is, bear I sometimes feel myself to be.’
Madame smiled a subtle smile. One thing Ben Wolfe did not know of himself was how much his face changed and softened when he looked at Susanna. She was prepared to bet that the desire to love and to protect his mate was strong within him and would not be denied. She had long thought that
the woman whom he married would be lucky—but only if she could meet his strength with her own quite different brand.
In Susanna Ben had met his mate and his equal and it would be her pleasure to see them flourish together, their respective miseries long behind them. She could only pray that the troubles which surrounded him would soon be over and that their life together would be set fair.
Chapter Twelve
The buzz about Ben Wolfe’s origins rose to a roar. Rumours flew about: that Lord Babbacombe wished to go to law, but pursuing a Writ of Ejectment through the courts would prove both long and costly and Babbacombe, unfortunately for him, was on his beam-ends. It was known that the moneylenders would no longer accommodate him and that no bank would advance him so much as a half-penny. He was in immediate danger of ending up in a debtor’s prison since he had been living on tick and borrowed money for years.
Ben Wolfe, on the other hand, was rolling in it, as the saying went, and since possession was nine-tenths of the law, remained ensconced in The Den in the country and in his town house in London.
M’lord called in the Runners, but all their pushing and probing gave him no harder evidence than he already possessed—other than that there had been a country rumour about the time of Ben’s birth that his supposed mother was not his real one—but no reliable witnesses could be found to testify that this was true. Another rumour was that a child had been born to Mrs Wolfe but that it had died immediately and an orphan brat had been substituted in its place to prevent Lord Babbacombe from being the then rich estate’s heir. This, too, was supported by no witness whom a court of law might believe.
Lord Babbacombe, rolling his eyes and looking melancholy, said repeatedly to anyone who would listen to him that it was monstrous that a poor man like himself should be unable to do anything to right his wrongs, particularly when his enemy was so stinking rich.
‘Ill-gotten gains,’ he always ended mournfully.
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