by Jen YatesNZ
‘You are awake, my Lord.’
‘I am, Deacon. Though I wish I weren’t!’
‘I took the liberty of bringing a—er—pick-me-up—as was recommended to me by Lord Biggleston’s man. He swears it sets his Lordship up right and bright every morning—,’ Deacon stopped to cough ‘—er—afternoon.’
‘Biggleston’s man?’
What had he become? Biggleston’s name was a byword for sottishness.
‘Well—I thought for sure the man would have a recipe and he assures me it’s right efficacious—if not exactly palatable, my Lord. The trick is to down it in one.’
Deacon had gone to this trouble for him? How many nights now had he slept in his clothes on this damnable couch, insensible from excess of hard liquor?
And in a mood not one whit the better for it.
Silently Rogan held out his hand for the tumbler of cloudy liquid and tossed it back, not allowing himself to breathe until the last drop had slid down his throat. Handing the empty glass back to Deacon, he pushed himself heavily to his feet and stood for a moment to allow his spinning head to settle.
‘Send Brixton to me upstairs—make that in ten minutes. I have a note to write first. I’ll need someone to deliver it for me and to wait for a reply.’
‘Very good, my Lord. Allen will be waiting in the hall when you’re done writing and I’ll send Brixton to await you upstairs.’
‘Thanks, Deacon. Your—ah—consideration is appreciated. I apologize for causing concern.’
The man’s habitual lugubrious expression almost softened and the head bowed infinitesimally.
‘T’is my job, but if you don’t mind me presuming on my long service to the Windermere’s, my Lord, I’d just say that there’s no shame in seeking counsel when one is bedeviled and seeing no way forward.’
Rogan offered the older man a rueful smile. Deacon had served his father and had in fact entered service with his grandfather.
‘You’re right, Deacon. Pride is a damnably lonely bedfellow.’
‘Indeed, my Lord. Will that be all?’
‘Send a maid to clear up in here. Thank you, Deacon.’
‘Of course, my Lord.’
Rogan sat at his desk and stared at the sheet of crested letter paper on the blotter. He’d written ‘Madame Lady Bouvier’ as the salutation but how to proceed? With a sigh, he scrawled a brief request for an interview as soon as possible, preferably this afternoon, signed, sealed and handed it to Allen, who waited in the hall, with instructions to await a reply and bring it to him immediately.
It was time for some changes—more changes—in his life. If there was anything he could do to ensure those changes included a happy marriage—any sort of marriage—with Jassie then he had no choice but to pursue it.
Turning for the stairs, he had the startling realization that his head was almost clear—and that hope was sprouting like spring in his heart.
‘Brixton,’ he said as he strode into his rooms, ‘are you still of a mind to be my full-time valet?’
‘Yes, my Lord.’ The ex-army major who limped from a leg wound sustained at Ciudad Rodrigo, drew himself up to his considerable height and for a moment Rogan thought the man would salute him. He was always impeccably turned out and acted in the capacity of a valet whenever Rogan resided in the capital long enough for it to matter.
‘Good. There will be an increase in wages of course but I’ll expect you to take complete responsibility for my appearance. Marriage has changed a few things. I’ll be taking my seat in the House next session and will largely be dividing my time between here and Windermere. No more tripping out of the country. We travel down to the Abbey for Opening day. My mother, in her infinite wisdom, has decided we should host a house party, like in times past—with a ball. I should probably visit my tailor while I’m here and update my wardrobe somewhat. It never used to matter but it appears I may have to become a little more of a society animal.’
‘Very good, my Lord.’
The man was hard pressed to keep his smile from becoming an out and out grin. Rogan knew he’d long wanted to take his master seriously in hand and now he had his wish.
‘Right. A bath and a shave are my requirements right now.’
His new valet became a whirlwind of action, ordering up the bath, laying out soap and towels, shaving apparatus, and a clean suit of clothes.
Rogan was relaxing under the man’s skilled hands, his face half shaved when a knock came at the door.
‘Enter.’
‘The reply to your note, my Lord.’
Allen crossed the room and handed him a dainty sheet of paper folded, sealed with pink wax and bearing the sweet scent of violets.
‘Thanks, Allen. I’ll call you if I need any further assistance.’
The man bowed out the door and Rogan realized with dismay that his hand was almost trembling and although he tried to tell himself it was the result of too much alcohol last night, the truth of the matter was, he was filled with a tremulous hope that Madame Lady Bouvier would have some miraculous wisdom that would help him overcome his obsession with punishment so he could truly make love to his wife.
‘Hold the razor for a minute, Brixton.’
The man held the blade aloft while Rogan broke the seal and read the brief message within. She would see him at two o’clock that very afternoon. Crushing the note in his hand he laid his head back and closed his eyes.
With a sigh of satisfaction, he said, ‘Proceed.’
Chapter 12
Precisely at two Rogan was shown into a small, luxuriously appointed salon, the focus of which was a doll-like creature clothed entirely in lilac and seated near the window reading—a book of Byron’s poems if he wasn’t mistaken. Her likeness to Jassie was uncanny though she appeared to be of a more dainty build. It was like looking in one of those trick mirrors that distorted familiar features to look the same—but not.
‘Lord Windermere,’ she said, starting to rise.
‘Please don’t get up, Lady Bouvier,’ he said after retrieving his sagging jaw. ‘And since I believe I’m married to your niece you should more properly call me Rogan. The likeness is stunning—to Jassie and her late mother.’
He took the hand she raised to him and lifted it to his lips and she smiled—and he became aware that her eyes were light, almost yellow, and suddenly she was nothing like his beautiful golden Jassie at all—more like a slightly faded counterfeit. Now able to block the mental distraction of the woman’s appearance, he could focus again on the purpose of his visit.
And with that focus the claws of tension were back in his gut.
‘Mary and I were identical twins. She was quieter and would never have done what I did. Not that I regret my choices, for I don’t, except in so much as she never spoke to me again. We weren’t as close as some twins for our personalities were so opposite—but I miss her. It was a great joy to receive a visit from Jassinda last week.’
‘The pleasure was mutual. She feels the lack of family very keenly.’
Silver glinted in the immaculate golden coiffure as she dipped her head in acknowledgement.
‘Please be seated, Rogan. You don’t intend to keep her from me, then?’
‘Of course not. It would be like trying to keep bees from nectar. Though in the interests of Jassie’s standing in society I would request you to be excessively discreet. Besides, I love her too much to do anything so cruel. Her happiness is very important to me, which is why I’m here now. Nothing else would’ve dragged me through your door.’
‘Nothing?’ she asked archly, and for the first time he glimpsed the courtesan behind the sweet, ladylike facade.
Rogan returned her direct gaze with one of his own.
‘You’d have soon turned me away, I think, if I’d sought relief for my—proclivities—here, which Jassie tells me she has disclosed to you.’
To his chagrin, heat raced along his cheekbones and he clenched his jaw in irritation.
The smile died from her e
yes to be replaced by a more solemn expression.
‘After hearing Jassie’s explanation of your—‘condition’ I’d call it—I’d have to agree. But let’s start right there. The term ‘proclivity’ implies it’s a condition you’re inclined towards and I gather that’s not the case. It’s more like something has been implanted in your psyche against your will. Would my assessment be correct?’
Rogan was impressed and, for a moment, even forgot the swords of tension slicing into his belly.
‘You seem to have grasped the picture very accurately.’
Her smile flashed again and then she glanced down at the book still open on her lap. Carefully arranging the ribbon marker between the pages she set it on the small table at her elbow and clasped her hands loosely together.
Raising her gaze to his again, she said, ‘And you’ve come to see whether I could help in this matter?’
‘Truthfully? It was Jassie who came seeking help. When she suggested I visit you and admitted she’d disclosed my ugly story to you—I—suffice it to say I’ve not spoken to her since.’
The carefully shaped brows rose.
‘Something changed your mind?’
‘Other than being dragged out of one hell-hole or another by my friends night after night—and waking on the couch in my study with the devil’s bells ringing in my head and the study reeking of spilt brandy, you mean?’
She nodded, sympathy shining in her eyes.
He didn’t need sympathy, dammit. He needed help. He ground his teeth and tried to rein back his impatience.
‘It became clear to me this morning when I found my butler had been so concerned he’d gone to the trouble of seeking out a remedy for hangovers, that something must change. Much already has and can never be undone. Therefore I have to find a way to live with those changes. I have to find a way to make new changes, to change the fundamental—beast—I have become so that Jassie and I can have the kind of marriage I had once dreamed we would.’
‘I guess producing an heir is of paramount importance?’
‘To a degree. There are a couple of male cousins down the Windermere side of the family tree who could step into that role if I fail in that respect.’
‘You could—,’ she began then stopped and lowered her eyes to briefly examine the perfection of her manicure though Rogan had the impression she wasn’t really seeing it. ‘Had you thought of asking someone else to sire your heir?’
‘Someone else?’ he asked, confused. Then as he studied her watchful expression he felt a terrible heat build inside him.
‘You mean—ask someone else, a cousin perhaps, to sire the next heir to Windermere—on Jassie?’
A flicker of golden lashes indicated that was exactly what she’d been inferring. The heat flared into his brain and he started to push himself up out of the chair. He’d been wasting his time!
A cool, delicate hand clamped around his wrist.
‘Clearly not. Please stay.’
She waited until he relaxed back onto the seat, though ‘relaxed’ was something he despaired of ever feeling again.
‘I just need to know what’s really important to you. Would I be right in thinking that producing an heir is not your top priority then?’
Rogan took a moment to tamp down the murderous rage that had risen within him at the thought of some other bastard lying with Jassie, siring a child on her to be raised as his, Rogan’s, son. It took another few deep breaths before he could unclench his jaw in order to speak.
‘Producing an heir is important—of course.’ He could admit to that much. ‘But if my wife is to produce that heir then I will be its father!’
‘And quite rightly so, Rogan,’ Belle agreed soothingly. ‘Perhaps you could enlighten me a little more as to what happens. Jassie says it’s as if you change, become someone else and that you don’t really know what you’re doing once you enter that state.’
Unable to stem the tide of agitation that flowed through him at the thought of exposing the depths of his depravity yet again, and this time to a stranger, Rogan surged to his feet and began prowling the perimeters of the room. He felt a deep sympathy for the big cats caged in the Royal Menagerie and reminded himself there were no bars here restraining him. He could leave if he wanted, if his shame was greater than his love for Jassie. He stopped before a window at the far end of the room and gripped his hands firmly behind his back.
‘There are triggers. The worst one is when she starts to beg.’ He swallowed. ‘Dammit, it’s not right. The only way I could make love to her without becoming that punitive beast is to take her without arousing her at all. I can’t do that to her! But if I take the time to—arouse her, to make love to her—inevitably there comes a point when she will beg. Beg me to take her, beg me to enter her, beg me to love her. What does it matter! The moment that happens I lose control and the woman beneath my hands becomes that whoring bitch and I have to bind her and punish her. I have to make her understand that what she did was so wrong! I cannot stop myself!’
‘A word from Jassie wouldn’t stop you?’
Rogan came to a standstill in the middle of the room, startled to find he’d been pacing in time to his feverish words and that his heart was thundering in his chest. His arms were now rigid at his sides and he slowly unclenched his fists and moved back to the chair opposite Lady Bouvier.
‘There is no thought in my mind but punishment, no sound penetrates the haze of rage that fills me. All I hear is that fucking bitch urging me on, moaning and whimpering her delight in every foul action I can perform on her body—and when I thought I had thrashed her to submission, in fact feared I might have actually killed her, she told me I was—magnificent. What do I have to do to make her understand?’
He stopped, appalled to feel the ugly miasma tearing at the edges of his mind. His legs and hands had begun to tremble and even though he knew he should take himself out of this room, out of the house immediately he also knew that if he tried to stand he’d probably fall and lie trembling on the floor like some poor idiot who should be confined at Bedlam.
Vaguely he was aware of Lady Bouvier moving as he dragged unsteady hands over his sweating face.
‘Brandy, Windermere. Drink.’
Gratefully he took the glass and downed the generous tot it held.
The darkness that had threatened his mind, receded and he sank back in the chair, relieved to feel a calmness flowing through his nerves after the fiery burn of the liquor.
‘I shall leave—’
‘No, Windermere, you will not.’
The words were crisp, the tone in which they were spoken deeply authoritative. It was shock as much as anything else that kept him where he was. She rang a small hand bell and ordered tea and cakes to be brought immediately.
As the maid hurried to do her bidding, Lady Bouvier turned back to him and asked, ‘And how is Olwynne? I know she doesn’t keep well but she never tells me much in her letters.’
‘Letters? You correspond with my mother?’
‘Yes.’ The sleek golden head nodded. ‘Ever since Mary died. I could never play a part in Jassie’s life but with Olwynne’s connivance I’ve watched over her as best I could. Quentin’s death broke your mother’s spirit but your father’s death broke her heart. She would be pleased by your marriage, I think.’
‘Yes. It’s given her a new lease of life. But she’s very frail and I—we—worry. But I think if I were ever to talk seriously to her about it she’d say she’ll be happy to go—to be with my father.’
‘And that’s as it should be.’
A maid arrived with the tea trolley and parked it at Lady Bouvier’s side. She busied herself pouring tea into fine china cups and offering him a plate of small, elegantly iced cakes. Adding a sugar lump to her own cup, she stirred ruminatively, took a sip and set the cup carefully on its saucer at her side.
‘It would seem some sort of intervention is needed, a third party, if you will.’
Rogan felt his chest swell with the a
nger that had filled him while talking to Knightsborough.
‘That’s already been suggested and I refuse to employ some—pervert to loiter outside our bedroom door. I could possibly countenance it for myself but I won’t subject Jassie to such humiliation.’
‘I was thinking something a little more intimate than that.’
‘More intimate?’
‘A ménage a trois, perhaps?’
Rogan set the delicate teacup aside before he crushed it between his fingers. He began to push himself up from his chair, his teeth grinding with impotent despair.
‘For Jassie’s sake, Windermere, I must insist you at least talk about this.’
‘Talk about inviting some other bastard right into our bedroom? Invite him to—make love to my wife, right alongside me?’
‘That is what I’m suggesting. Because if he were to stand inside the room instead of outside the door, he would still be—er—loitering—like a pervert, as you say. But this is all conjecture. We are just trying to think what might work. Please hold the emotion for a bit and try to focus on the problem—as if it concerned someone else. Not you.’
Rogan almost rolled his eyes, but he stayed in the chair, suddenly conscious that while there might be ways to forestall his descent into madness while making love to his wife, they were likely to involve scenarios neither he nor Jassie would countenance. It was much like tying a starving man to his chair and then placing food just beyond his reach.
‘I have great difficulty in imagining as you suggest.’
‘I’m sure you do, but try. Remember what’s at stake.’
He nodded.
‘We’ve established that the only way you could be distracted from the—change of personality—is by a third party, have we not?’
Surely there was some other answer, but he knew it for the futile hope it was. How could Jassie stop him when she was bound or gagged—or both? He nodded again, not trusting himself to speak.
‘And from what you tell me, some sort of intervention is probably needed to break the cycle of your behavior. Your mind learnt such a terrible and deeply ingrained lesson, it can’t respond any other way when the remembered stimuli are applied. So it needs someone strong enough to overpower you should you become physically violent or try to oppose them. It needs someone both you and Jassie would trust implicitly—with your lives, your happiness. It needs someone who would treat Jassie with the same deep love and respect—and discretion—you would yourself. And speaking as a woman—not a courtesan—the only way I wouldn’t find the introduction of a third party humiliating, is if they were as deeply involved emotionally and sexually as you and she are.’
