by Anita Mills
"Lifts up my nightgown, Mama?" the girl demanded incredulously. "Surely he would not!"
"Yes, well—he will do a great deal more than that, I'm afraid. He might even prefer that you take it off entirely."
Elinor regarded her mother suspiciously. "Why?"
"Well, he is your husband—and—and"—she floundered a bit, then blurted out—"and it gets in the way."
"In the way of what?" the girl asked bluntly. "Mama, what are you trying to say?"
By now, the woman's face was a deep red. Nonetheless, she drew in a deep breath, then persevered. "Well, you know the Bible does say that the two shall become one flesh, you know. And once you are wed, your body becomes your husband's property, so to speak." She fixed her gaze on one of the roses woven into the thick carpet. "He has the right to touch you anywhere he pleases, Nell. Even—even down there. There—I have said it."
"Down where? Mama—where?"
"In your most private places."
Revulsion washed over her. "I think I should rather die," Elinor declared flatly.
"It's the way of things between a man and a woman." Her mother rose quickly. "Yes—well, you ought to rest, dearest—truly you should. I know it's a trying day for you."
"Mama—"
"And you must not think I do not feel for you. However, I know that you will survive—we all do. You have but to lie there and let him have his way."
"Mama!"
"It will soon be over, anyway. Men are selfish creatures, you know." She leaned over to brush a kiss against her daughter's cheek, then embraced her, squeezing the girl's stiff shoulders. "On the morrow, you will think you worried for naught, I assure you."
After she left, Elinor lay wide-awake upon the high bed, staring up into the rich canopy, trying to imagine what Arthur Kingsley would do to her. But every time she thought of him touching her there, she felt sick in the pit of her stomach. Surely he would not expect anything like that. But she knew he would.
The wedding supper was a sumptuous, elegant repast served for only five, with Elinor's sisters taking their meal elsewhere in the house. As it was, a footman had placed Lord Kingsley at one end of the table and her at the other, with her parents on one side and young Charles across from them. Aside from murmurs of approval as each new dish was presented, there was little conversation beyond her father's forced attempts to engage Kingsley. For her part, Elinor could scarcely taste any of it, her mind dwelling gloomily instead on what would befall her later.
Finally, her father noted her, and his voice boomed out, "Here now, puss—don't look so pulled! You got Christmas coming, and after, Kingsley's giving you a party! Ain't that so, my lord?"
"Indeed." The older baron nodded. "We are accustomed here to having tenants and neighbors call after the holidays, of course, but this year I should like to have a somewhat larger affair to introduce Elinor to Cornish society."
"Be a bang-up affair, from all I have heard of it." Charles Kingsley spoke up. "Wish I was to be here, but I got to go back to school—unless Grandpapa relents."
"I am sure Elinor will write you about it, won't you, my dear?" the old man said smoothly. "I have hopes you will be friends, after all." He turned his attention to Thomas Ashford. "If you are meaning to invite any," he added meaningfully, "you'd best give over your list to Pemberly, that the cards may be posted forthwith."
"I doubt any would wish to travel this far, but I'd thought Longford—and perhaps Collinson—and Car-stairs. They are among the more pressing ones."
"Longford?" Elinor looked up, surprised. Then, recalling her encounter with the earl, she dropped her head, reddening. "Oh."
Arthur Kingsley's eyebrows rose, and he frowned. "I shouldn't think—"
"Oh, she don't know him—do you, puss?" her father hastened to warn her. "But you yourself said—" He looked to his aging son-in-law. "That is, I thought—"
"Man's a devil!" Charles Kingsley snorted.
"That will be enough, Charles," his grandfather said sternly.
The boy lapsed into silence, piquing Elinor's curiosity. "What has he done?" she inquired cautiously.
"A sordid affair, I'm afraid," the old man murmured. Looking again to her father, he explained, "No doubt you cannot have heard it yet, but it will be a dreadful scandal when it's known."
Her father shook his head. "His damnable temper, I should suppose. Fellow can be deuced unpleasant when he wants. Still—"
"It wasn't a duel," Charles piped up again. Then, perceiving the old man's frown, he dropped his eyes and stabbed at the meat on his plate.
"I'm afraid he's done it this time. Wilcox, carry the peas to Lady Kingsley, if you please."
"Thank you, Wilcox, but I have had enough," Elinor told the footman, shaking her head. "But what has this Longford done?"
"It's not a fit matter for your ears, my dear," Lord Kingsley told her.
"Yes, well—if you do not wish it, I shall not ask him," his father decided. "Any objection to the others, my lord?"
"I have no objection to any of them, not even Longford, my dear Thomas. I merely meant that I doubt he will wish to show his face anywhere."
"He don't care," Charles declared. "Had it of m'friend Fenton that he don't."
"Fenton?" Elinor's father asked. "Ain't he married to a Fenton?"
"Yes. Next time, dear boy, you may dine with the children in the nursery," the old man said, glowering. "When I say enough, I mean enough."
"Yes, sir."
The brief diversion thus ended, the meal again became an ordeal of silence for Elinor. She found it rather irritating that she was somehow old enough to wed, yet too innocent to hear the tale of Longford's scandal. Briefly, she considered cornering the hapless Charles after dinner, then realized she probably would not get the chance. Yet as she pushed her food around her plate, she could not help wondering about the black-haired, black-eyed earl who'd told her he was a damnable husband.
Mercifully, no one was inclined to linger over dessert, a confection of sponge cake soaked in rum-laced, sweetened cream, and thus supper came to an end. As the last covers were removed, Lord Kingsley raised his half-empty wineglass to her.
"To Elinor—my lovely, lovely little bride." As her father joined him in the toast, her husband added, "No doubt you would wish to retire, my dear. I shall join you directly."
She'd expected to withdraw with her mother, to share a glass of ratafia or punch with her. Casting about helplessly for the means to delay, she directed a mute appeal to her mother, who merely looked away. Finding no ally, she rose, trying not to betray her nervousness. "Of course, my lord," she managed, dry-mouthed.
"Good night, puss," her father told her.
"In the future, you will address her as Elinor," Lord Kingsley declared coldly. "I had meant to mention that to you earlier, Thomas. She is my baroness now, and as such must command the dignity of her station."
Holding her back straight, she left the room, hearing her father change the subject once again to the Earl of Longford, wondering aloud what the "young devil" had done. She lingered as long as she dared, wanting to know also.
"It's scarcely fit for Lady Ashford's ears, either," Kingsley protested. Then, lowering his voice, he continued, "It will out anyway, I suppose, but Charles had it of young Fenton, the girl's brother, a schoolmate at Harrow."
"Yes—yes," her father interrupted impatiently. "Had what?"
"My dear Thomas, Longford's wife has made him the laughingstock—cuckolded him with Bellamy Town-send."
"Cannot say I blame her," her father admitted. "Fellow's cold. But I thought Townsend was his friend."
"Ah, but she played him false before he got his heir," Lord Kingsley reminded him. "The odd thing was that he didn't call Townsend out."
"I should have thought he'd have killed him anyway. Man's got pride, you know."
"Well, Townsend ain't a complete fool!" Charles snorted. "He wouldn't have gone anyway—denied everything even when caught! Said he was in his cups! Said he wasn't th
e only one, too. Named a couple of others."
"How very loyal of him," Lady Ashton murmured sarcastically.
"Yes, well, the short of it is that Longford has sued for a separation from his wife, claiming adultery," Kingsley explained.
"Case of the proverbial pot, ain't it?" the boy insisted. "Like there ain't any as knows of his bits of fluff."
"My dear Charles"—the baron's voice was pained— "adultery is not an offense for a man."
"Is he going to sue young Townsend?" Lady Ashton wondered.
"Aye, but it's worse than that—when he was collected of Townsend, he has told the Fentons he means to seek a divorce."
"A divorce!" she gasped. "But the scandal—he will not be received!"
"Precisely," Kingsley agreed. "There is enough dirty linen there to send 'em both into exile for life. And even if he were, which he will not be, a man of his pride will need time to lick his wounds before he comes about. But we tarry needlessly—do you join me for a bit of brandy before you retire?"
Afraid that her mother would come out and catch her eavesdropping, Elinor hurried on up the stairs. But as she reached the top, she fought the urge to flee, to hide from her aged bridegroom. For a moment, she considered it, then thought of her father going to debtor's prison, of her mother struggling to provide for the girls on a pittance from the poor roll, and she knew she had to stay.
Despite the warmth of the fresh-laid fire or the beauty of the room, she wished fervently for her small chamber at Edgehill. When a maid came up behind her, she jumped, panicked.
"Would your ladyship be wishful of assistance?" the girl asked her. The girl. The maid was actually older than she was. When Elinor did not answer, she went into the room and began laying out a new embroidered lawn nightgown and a silk wrapper. "Ohhh—how lovely," she crooned, fingering the delicate stitching at the neck.
"I—I should like something to drink, I think," Elinor managed to say.
"I could bring ye a pot o' tea—or a bit of ratafia," the girl offered. "Name's Mary, by the by."
"Actually, I should prefer something a bit stronger. Mary," she mused half to herself, "it's my mother's name also."
The girl laid aside the nightgown and surveyed Elinor sympathetically. "Never liked the name myself, ye know—always thought it plain. But aye, I'd wager ye'd take the stronger stuff. If ye was to want me to, I suppose I could get something outer his lordship's cabinet—if that hateful Daggett ain't in his room, you understand."
"Daggett?"
"His valet. Would ye have a finger or two of brandy— or a bit of port?"
"Brandy would be fine."
"Ever drink any?"
"No."
"Well, ye'd best drink it slow-like, else ye'll choke yerself on it."
"Thank you, Mary."
"Ye don't have to thank me. If it was me, I'd be a-drinking it also."
The maid brought the decanter and a glass. Dismissing her, Elinor undressed quickly, donned the nightgown and wrapper, poured herself a full glass of the liqueur, and carried it to a chair before the fire. Outside, the wind came up, and a burst of rain sprayed the windowpane beside her. The thought crossed her mind that it might sleet as she sank down and began to drink of the potent, fiery liquid. The maid had been right—as the first of it burned her throat, Elinor choked, and tears welled in her eyes. When she finished coughing, she resolved to sip it slowly, to let it warm her mouth before she swallowed. She sat there drinking, listening to the storm, watching the licking flames, trying not to think of Lord Kingsley.
She was on her third glass when he came up. As the door opened and closed behind her, she dropped it, spilling the liquid onto the hearth. A splash ignited, flashing outward, and the old man hastened to beat out the trail of fire on the marble before it reached the expensive rug. "What the devil are you doing?"
"I—I was having some brandy." She took a deep breath, then blurted out, "It was to help me sleep."
"I cannot abide a sotted female, Elinor," he told her coldly. "In the future, you will not partake of wine when you are not in my presence." Abruptly, his manner changed. To her horror, he moved closer and lifted her hair from her shoulder. "Lovely. It's like copper-colored silk. Fashion or no, I'd not see you cut it." He let the hair fall, and his hand slid to her shoulder, tracing the bony line to her neck, then upward to her jaw. "Has anyone told you what an exquisite creature you are?" he asked, his voice raspy.
"No—no." Disconcerted, she pulled away and tightened the sash on her wrapper.
The gesture was not lost on him. "You must not be missish before me, Elinor. Take it off."
"Uh—"
"The wrapper, Elinor. Take it off," he repeated.
"No."
"I'd see what I have paid for."
"I—I cannot."
"If I have to ask again, I'll take my cane to you."
She wanted to scream for aid, but knew none would be forthcoming. For a long moment, she met his glittering gaze, then she took a deep breath. With shaking hands, she untied the sash and let it fall at her feet. Turning away, she removed the silk wrapper, folded it, and lay it over the back of a chair. When she turned around, she realized that he had taken off his coat and cravat and was unbuttoning his vest.
"Curst buttons," he muttered. "I need your help."
"Your valet—Mr. Daggett—"
"I'd have you do it."
Her whole body trembling now, she held out her hands. "I—I cannot!"
He stared at her hard for a moment, then seemed to relent. "That fool did not tell you anything, did she?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Your mama."
Heat flooded her face. "No," she lied.
"Take off the gown and get into bed."
"Please—could I not leave it on—just tonight, I mean? I—uh—"
"Get into bed."
"My lord—"
"My name is Arthur," he cut in abruptly. "You will use that when we are alone and Kingsley when we are in company. The title came dear to me, and I'd have none forget it." He finished with the vest and removed it. "I'd hear you say it."
"Kingsley?"
"Arthur." His thin, bony fingers worked at his shirt. When she said nothing, he again moved toward her. "Well?"
"I am getting into bed—Arthur," she mumbled, scrambling for the covers.
"Good."
She pulled the bedcoverings up to her chin and did not look at him as he finished undressing. But as each garment came off, her heart seemed to rise higher in her throat. By the time he blew out the candles, she was nearly rigid with terror. She could hear the rustle of the bedhangings, then feel the slight dip in the mattress as he crawled in beside her. For a long moment, there was no sound beyond the reverberation of her heartbeat in her ears and the high, reedy pitch of his breathing. She lay very still until she felt his fingers gather the cloth of her nightgown, pulling it upward, then she flinched.
"Oh, please—no. Not yet."
"Lie still."
She froze when his hand slid up her thigh to touch her, and then a cry of revulsion rose in her throat as his finger poked her there. She stiffened, then clutched at his arm.
"No!"
To her utter horror, his finger pushed inside her, hurting her, finding a place she did not even know she had. She tried to push him away, and would have screamed, but he rolled over onto her, pinning her beneath him, separating her legs with a bony knee. His breath wheezed in her face before his mouth came down hard on hers, stifling any sound beyond a frantic "No-mmmmph." She gagged and fought wildly, feeling his hands groping between her thighs, feeling the wet, limp softness of his flesh against hers. Before she could buck free of him, he suddenly rolled off, cursing. She felt an overwhelming relief.
"Is it—is it over?" she dared to ask.
He hit her then. "Hold your tongue—do you hear me? Hold your tongue!" He staggered from the bed to retrieve his cane and came back brandishing it over her. "Little witch!"
"Wha—what did I d
o?" The cane came down hard on her shoulders, and she raised her hands to cover her face as he hit her again and again. "I am innocent!" she cried, not knowing even what she protested. "Please— no! Arthur—my lord—," she babbled, "Arthur—no!"
He stopped suddenly, but she would never forget the awful expression of loathing on his face. Rolling into a ball on the bed, she began to sob loudly. She heard the cane hit the floor somewhere across the room, and then she felt his hands on her shoulders.
"Are you hurt?"
Thinking it some sort of a trick, or some form of punishment like that meted out at school, where if one admitted one was not, one got hit again, she was afraid to say anything. Instead, she clutched her knees to her breast and rocked. He rose, pulled on his nightshirt, and padded to the washstand, where he poured water into the basin. Carrying it back, he sat beside her and pulled her head onto his knees. Her teeth chattered, making speech impossible. Leaning across her, he managed to spark a candle wick, and then he began to wash her face.
"You are my wife, Elinor," he said finally. "You will obey me in all things. Do you understand that?"
She gulped for air and tried to control the tremors that shook her body. "You hurt me!" she cried.
"I'd not have you speak of this—not now—not ever," he went on as though she'd not spoken. "Do you understand me? Not to anyone—not ever," he repeated.
She didn't understand at all, but she managed to nod her head. " Yes, b-but—"
A bony finger stilled her mouth as though she were a small child. "No. There will be no buts between us." His hands smoothed her hair much as her old nurse had done when she had been sick. "There—you are better, aren't you?"
She choked back tears and turned her face away from him. He laid the basin on the bedside table, blew out the candle, and lay down beside her. For a time, he was silent, and the only sounds seemed to be the rain against the window, the popping of dying embers in the fireplace, and his thin, reedy breath behind her ear. When she perceived finally that he did not mean to touch her again, she dared to exhale fully.
