by Anne O'Brien
‘It must be a little unnerving knowing no one.’ Penelope favoured Frances with a pitying glance. ‘I understand that you have not been in town before, that you did not have the benefit of a Season. It is invaluable in showing you how to go on in Society.’
‘No. It was not possible—for family reasons. I am finding it a great pleasure.’
‘It will soon become tedious when you know it well,’ Miss Vowchurch replied with languid and fashionable boredom. ‘I am sure Matthew will agree with me.’
‘I am afraid I can not conceive of being bored.’ Frances showed her teeth in a smile. ‘After all, there is so much to see and occupy one’s mind.’
‘And where is Aldeborough this afternoon? I would have expected him to drive you in the park—on your first day here. Perhaps he was too busy?’
So would I, thought Frances, but the light of battle was in her eyes and she was enjoying the polite parrying of swords.
‘It was Aldeborough’s intention to drive me here. He informed me of such at breakfast. But my husband is consulting his lawyer about some legal affairs of mine. My inheritance, you understand. It was most urgent and he wished to put my mind at ease about it. I find him most considerate in all things. It is such a relief to be able to leave such business affairs to the attention of one’s husband. You cannot imagine.’
‘It must be very comforting for you.’ Frances was delighted to see the lady’s lips set in a firm line and the smile disappear from her face as well as her eyes.
‘Perhaps we should move on, Matthew. I believe we are blocking the drive. Au revoir until this evening, Miss Vowchurch.’
Frances bowed her head, intentionally copying Miss Vowchurch’s graceful actions. She unfurled her parasol with a decided snap.
‘Well done!’ murmured Matthew with a straight face. ‘Mama’s Paragon has had her nose put just slightly out of joint! Juliet will be pleased.’
As they turned out of the park Frances returned to one aspect of the previous conversation. ‘Tell me about the party tonight.’
‘It’s only a small gathering to celebrate the betrothal of our Cousin Phoebe to Viscount Petersfield.’
‘Do I have to go?’
‘But of course. As I said—you are part of the family now. Besides, it will be a good opportunity to meet people on a small scale—and many of the distant connections you will never have to see again. You will deal admirably. And you can get the worst over with all on one occasion.’
I suppose I will, thought Frances. Matthew understood how nervous she was feeling at the prospect of being abandoned in a sea of names and faces. She just hoped that Aldeborough would be as considerate.
Matthew turned the bays towards the park gates to return home to Cavendish Square. As he reined in to allow a wayward grey and its rider to edge round them, Frances became aware of a smart barouche approaching from the opposite direction. Its one occupant, a lady, smiled directly at Frances, and although she did not ask her coachman to stop, she lowered her parasol and raised her hand in friendly greeting.
‘Who is the lady waving to us?’ Frances asked.
‘Oho! So Mrs Winters is back in Town, is she?’ Matthew muttered, a cautious note entering his voice.
‘Should we stop? She seems to know you well. She waved.’
‘No. I do not think we should.’ He shook the reins to encourage the bays to trot on. ‘And it would be better if you did not acknowledge her.’ But Frances had already smiled tentatively at the prospect of a new acquaintance.
‘But why not? She looks charming. So open and friendly.’
‘Yes. Well … she is.’ For once, Matthew appeared rather uneasy. ‘But not very respectable. She has a reputation, if you take my meaning. And we do not acknowledge her.’
‘Oh. But she seemed to recognise me.’
‘Yes.’ Matthew turned his clear gaze on her. ‘She knows Aldeborough,’ was all he said.
Frances hesitated, her mind taking in Matthew’s enigmatic reply. His meaning was clear. ‘Oh. I believe I understand.’
‘I am sure you do.’
The day left Frances filled with a curious blend of emotions. She had taken her first tentative steps as a member of London society. She had dreamed of such a fairy-tale enchantment all her life, but had accepted, bitterly, that unless she discovered a fairy godmother in an attic then it was not for her and she was destined to spend her existence cleaning out the grates of Torrington Hall. Yet, against all probability, she had been able to break the bonds of family and miserable dependence, to escape the life of drudgery and daily humiliations. And Aldeborough, although she had placed him unwittingly in an impossible situation, had married her, raised her in status and acceptability, preserved her reputation from scandal and gossip and launched her into polite society, all within less than two weeks of becoming aware of her existence. And all, it appeared, without any inconvenience to himself, as she had not set eyes on him all day. But, after all, he had told her that they would live separate lives. And would she really want to demand more from him than he had already given? She could not think about that. After all, she could not fault his strict code of honour and duty to protect her from worldly condemnation.
Now she was dressed for the evening with the ordeal of a family celebration to face. Nerves fluttered and swooped uncomfortably in her stomach at the prospect of so many unknown faces. They might have gathered for an important family event but the main topic of conversation would undoubtedly be the remarkable mésalliance of the Marquis of Aldeborough to an unknown from the depths of the country and the scandalous events that had precipitated it. She paced the floor of her bedchamber, wishing that Juliet would come and take pity on her and calm her anxieties with her light-hearted chatter and irreverent comment.
There was a sharp knock on the door, causing Frances to look up in anticipation. But it was not Juliet. Instead Aldeborough entered, dressed in formal evening attire for the first time since Frances had met him. The black satin knee breeches and swallow-tailed coat with white waistcoat embroidered in gold and with impeccable white linen gave him an air of magnificence that took her breath away and robbed her of words. How had she not realised that her husband was so very handsome?
He advanced towards her with catlike grace, the candles touching the tips of his black hair with gold and turning his eyes to silver quartz. She found her hands taken in his cool grasp and raised to his lips. The touch of his mouth on her fingers sent rills of response along her skin.
‘How can I expect you to forgive me, Frances Rosalind? I have neglected you dreadfully today, in spite of all my good intentions and promises. You must have decided that I was a sad bargain in the marriage stakes.’ His smile, which she was beginning to find irresistible, drew an answering one from her.
‘I don’t expect you to dance attendance on me, my lord,’ she replied calmly, with as level a gaze as she could muster, their previous encounter forcefully in her mind.
‘But your first day! It was unforgivable, even if unavoidable. I trust Matthew devoted himself to your entertainment and comfort?’
‘Indeed he did. He told me he dare not disobey orders if he valued his life.’
Aldeborough laughed. ‘I must remind him about that some time.’
‘Juliet suggested that you were spending your day at Jackson’s Saloon,’ she informed him with the hint of a mischievous twinkle in her eye. ‘Or buying a horse.’
‘She would.’ He grinned in appreciation. ‘Nothing so pleasant, I do assure you. You were not abandoned for my own pleasure.’ Frances felt a sudden warmth spread through her limbs at his words. ‘All deeds and dusty lawyers—it seems to be never ending. But you seem to have spent your time most effectively. Let me look at you.’
He surveyed her critically and unsmilingly from her restrained curls to her new satin evening slippers. She immediately raised her chin, unsure whether she enjoyed that attention or resented the intense scrutiny.
Aldeborough circled her with a critical eye.
She stood before him, outwardly calm and elegant in a simple column of palest eau de nil satin overlaid by delicate cream lace. The neck line was fashionably draped, allowing the swell of her slight bosom to peep above the low corsage. She wore long evening gloves in the finest kid and her only jewellery was his silver locket, which nestled between her breasts. The ensemble was completed by a painted ivory-and-lace fan with carved sticks. She looked lovely, he thought, as she spread the antique fan with innate grace and turned her head to follow his progress. He was surprised by a surge of possessiveness and a quickened beat of his heart. Her skin glowed, delicately tinted with rose and her eyes were the luminous azure of dew-drenched delphiniums. For the first time since he had set eyes on her, recoiling from the interested and salacious attentions of a group of drunken gamblers, she appeared relaxed and less haunted. There were no shadows beneath those glorious eyes tonight. He discovered that he was holding his breath as he appreciated the depth of her charm. No, he decided, she was not a beauty in the classical mould. But, by God, he found her delightfully attractive. He stretched out his hand to caress her cheek because he felt compelled to do so. He was delighted to see the colour there deepen a little.
‘I like your hair,’ he commented simply. Juliet’s maid had curbed its waywardness and dressed it in ringlets on the crown of her head with one coaxed to fall becomingly on to her shoulder. Tiny curls had been allowed to frame her face and drift in wisps over her ears.
‘Where is the country mouse I married?’ He sounded satisfied with the transformation.
‘Still here under this disguise!’ Frances’s voice expressed all her feminine delight at the knowledge that she was turned out in the height of present fashion and she loved it. ‘If you look very closely, you can still see the whiskers.’
‘Well I must tell you that I like you very well, Madame Mouse. You make a most acceptable Marchioness, in spite of all your concerns.’
‘Thank you, kind sir.’ She dropped him a pert curtsy, to hide her sudden discomfort at his compliments. ‘But I must tell you that I don’t wish to go to this party. I’m terrified that I shall freeze and be unable to say a sensible word to anyone. And then what will your family think? Probably that you have taken leave of your senses!’
‘I guarantee that you will charm them all,’ Aldeborough encouraged gently. ‘And it is important that we be seen together, that we find our marriage more than merely acceptable. As I do.’ He bowed formally. ‘Then your reputation as my wife will be altogether without blemish.’
‘Of course. I understand.’
He took her hand and placed it on his proffered satin sleeve. ‘Then let us begin the campaign, my lady.’
Hours later Frances relaxed against her pillows. She felt tired and exhilarated, both at the same time, and could not contemplate sleep. She wielded her hairbrush, vigorously brushing her hair out of its ringlets in preparation for braiding it for the night. So many new faces, so many introductions, so many names and family connections. They blurred together. As good as his word, Aldeborough had kept close attendance, smoothing out the introductions, always solicitous and aware of the possibility of any discomfort, the epitome of a kind and considerate husband. There had been speculative glances, of course. It had to be expected. But no hint of gossip or unkind comment had been allowed to reach her ears. Aldeborough’s coldly smiling assurance and, she had to admit, his sheer arrogance had made any unpleasantness unthinkable. As a result, her confidence had grown and she had found herself laughing, enjoying the conversation, playing her new role with surprising enjoyment.
Juliet and Matthew had been quietly supportive, instructed by Aldeborough, she believed, to divert any difficulties. Lady Aldeborough, forced by necessity into compliance and detesting every moment of it, had managed to ignore her beyond a supercilious stare. After all, there had been nothing in her appearance for that lady to carp at. Miss Vowchurch and her languid parent had been graciously condescending, promising an invitation to a small gathering of select people that they would be holding in the next week. They hoped that the new Marchioness, and Aldeborough of course, would grace them with their presence. Frances had smiled and equally feigned total delight at the prospect. But far more importantly, she had been introduced to the Countess of Lieven, one of the formidable Patronesses of Almack’s, who had greeted her with chilling formality and little enthusiasm, but had promised admission vouchers. Frances knew that her acceptance into the haute ton was complete. Aldeborough had smiled cynically with a curled lip; it was amazing what a title and a fortune could achieve!
Her thoughts returned to Miss Vowchurch. Frances had had the leisure to observe the lady and had come to the conclusion that here lay a threat. Mrs Winters and her relationship with Aldeborough, revealed by Matthew as they drove in Hyde Park, was still an unknown quantity, but Miss Vowchurch had left Frances with a sense of disquiet. Aldeborough, of course, was no longer free and yet Miss Vowchurch had used every opportunity to catch his interest, even to flirt in a subtle, understated manner. Not with a fluttering of her lashes or the delicate use of her fan—that would be far too blatant for the proper Miss Vowchurch. But Frances had not mistaken the quiet conversation, the proprietorial hand on her husband’s sleeve when she wished to attract his attention. And the Dowager actually seemed to encourage it, suggesting that Aldeborough should squire her to the supper table. Not that he had—he had ensured that his bride was comfortably settled—but it had given Frances pause for thought. The Paragon might be a Beauty, but she was no longer a young débutante. Why, she might be all of three and twenty. Perhaps there was an element of despair in her approach to Aldeborough. Pitying gossips would soon have her well and truly on the shelf and Penelope would not care for that humiliation.
And what of the Marquis? Frances’s frown deepened. Well, he had not exactly encouraged Penelope, but nor had he put an end to her pretensions. Of course, he could hardly give her a public set-down, she mused, as she was such a close friend of the family, but did he really need to smile at her so charmingly or bend his head so intimately towards her to listen to her honeyed words? At least there had been no dancing so that Frances did not have to bear the mortification of seeing The Paragon in the arms of her husband in a waltz. It was amazing, Frances decided, how much she had come to dislike the lady on such a short acquaintance.
The door to her room opened.
Aldeborough!
She stiffened, her hand holding her hairbrush poised in mid-air. Her breath caught in her throat. ‘I did not expect you to visit me, my lord.’ She tried hard for composure and a smile and was relatively pleased with the result.
And she wishes I had not, thought the Marquis ruefully, as the confusion of doubt and anxiety flitted across her expressive features and the telltale blush stole up to her temples from the lace edging of her chemise.
‘Shall I go away?’ He sighed inwardly. Did he really want the burden of a reluctant wife tonight? He could have retreated, of course, with a polished excuse and found more congenial company elsewhere. But then he was taken aback by the sudden kick of lust in his gut at the sight of her sitting against the bank of pillows, eyes huge, hair unconfined.
‘I did not know you were home,’ she stammered, keeping the smile in place, realising that her initial comment had been less than welcoming. ‘I thought that gentlemen went on to gaming clubs and … and such things.’ Such as Letitia Winters; the insidious thought struck her, startling her by its aptness.
‘It had crossed my mind,’ he admitted with a serious expression. ‘But, as I remember you once informed me, I am no gentleman.’
She felt herself flush vividly in consternation. ‘I did not mean that. I was …’ She floundered helplessly.
He laughed and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, trying not to notice that she imperceptibly drew away from him.
‘You are forgiven. Besides, I thought I would like to spend some time with my new wife, who is looking so lovely.’ He was surprised to hear himself say those words
, but found it to be true. ‘I hope you enjoyed all the compliments.’
He leaned forward to take the brush from her rigid fingers and lay it down on her nightstand. Then he framed her face with his hands, pushing her hair behind her ears, and applied his lips gently to her temples, her eyes and finally her mouth. Her perfume overwhelmed his senses, her lips were eminently kissable. Her skin was incredibly soft and smooth as wild silk, giving an impression of great fragility. Again he was struck by the growing urgency of his desire to take her. He released her to douse the candles, rapidly strip off his clothing and stretch himself beside her.
She was as warm and fragrant as he remembered, obedient to his commands, trembling as his hands touched her body. It was easier to enter her. She wound her arms around his neck, holding him closely, burying her face against his chest as he took his own pleasure. He took care not to frighten her, conscious of her inexperience, but although she did not resist him, as on the previous night she remained reticent and withdrawn, making no sound of either enjoyment or discomfort.
She was aware of his every touch. She knew what to expect, anticipated it, wanted it even, but for some unfathomable reason beyond her reach, her brain would not allow her body to accept or respond with pleasure. What was wrong with her? She could only cling to him, mould her body to his, accommodate him as he wished until it was over because she was afraid of so many things, afraid of rejection, of allowing him to become aware of her own growing feelings towards him, and of his retribution if she should displease him. She noted as from a distance the caress of his hands, his mouth, the whole long, hard length of his body, but it could not break through the barrier around her heart and her physical response. She found it was utterly impossible for her to show him anything of her own desire to touch him, to return his passion. And she could never explain to him—it would be too humiliating. She clung to him in a storm of desolation that threatened to drown her in its overwhelming torrent.
