by Susanna Ives
The ladies let out a collective “Ahhh.”
“It’s always nice when there’s true affection between marriage partners.”
“It will be quite a brilliant match. An earl and a duke’s daughter.”
They continued to speculate when the wedding would take place, who would be in attendance, the amount of dowry the duke would consider. Mrs. Whitmore reasoned if Kesseley pressed the foiled attempt to Gretna Greene, he could get more than the twenty thousand pounds.
Henrietta felt like her insides were being ripped out. She shrunk in her chair and lowered her head, not wanting to watch Lady Sara waltz away with the man who dwelled in the quietest place of Henrietta’s heart.
At last the wretched waltz ended, and the ladies returned their attention to the game. Mrs. Whitmore led a heart. The lady to Henrietta’s right trumped it with a five. Henrietta overtrumped. Then she led the last trick, tossing out the jack of hearts.
“No, Miss Watson, you can’t play that,” Mrs. Whitmore said. “Hearts led the last trick. You had to play your heart then.”
Henrietta gaped before realizing the woman meant Henrietta’s cards, not that broken, ailing organ pumping her blood.
“I don’t feel well this evening. Please excuse me,” she said weakly and rose. Edward waited behind her. How long had he been there?
“I wanted to know—that is, would you dance with me? Again?” He looked as bereft as Henrietta felt. “We never finished our first dance.”
His stricken face sunk Henrietta’s misery and guilt deeper. She wasn’t the only one having their heart destroyed. And what was worse, Kesseley had only done what she had begged him to do. He had turned into some living version of Lord Blackraven and stolen Lady Sara.
Oh God, she hated herself.
“I am so sorry. I am so very sorry.” For everything. It’s all my fault. I was so ignorant. “II think I might faint. I need to find Lady Kesseley.” Henrietta ran her hand over her perspiring face.
“I shall take you to her,” Edward offered.
She clutched his arm, and they cautiously crept into the ballroom as if it were a dangerous jungle full of tigers and panthers. But the most fearful beast of all waited between the card room and his mother. An entourage of young bucks and admiring ladies, including Lady Sara, surrounded him, hanging on his words.
Henrietta felt Edward’s arm tighten. They clung to each other, trying to hurry past unnoticed.
No such luck. Kesseley halted them. “Tell Mama I’ll be joining Bucky and his friends this evening.” He tugged the sleeve of a red-headed man who laughed inanely.
Henrietta could only nod, her throat tight.
A slow, cruel smile twisted Kesseley’s lips. He looked from Edward to Henrietta. “Congratulations on your victory.”
“But I-I didn’t win. I lost every hand,” she whispered.
***
Kesseley marveled how much easier life in London became when he no longer cared. He rode his anger like a curricle at top speed, the wind on his face, not caring if an unseen pothole sent him flying. To hell with them all.
Kesseley followed Bucky and his friends to an entirely different ball at the notorious Argyll rooms. Under the stately bronze goddesses lining the walls and the eighteen chandeliers that ran down the length of the room, the lightskirts danced. Their provocative gowns of sheer white muslin hung low to expose their bosoms and clung to their limbs, giving the inspecting gentlemen a good eyeful of the merchandise.
Kesseley felt that familiar hunger rise up in him. The one that drove him onto the road to Ely some nights to a particular widow’s address. He hadn’t realized how frustrated he had become, locked in the house with Henrietta.
Now he felt her flow away from him, like a receding tide as these lovely feminine figures twirled about, their obscenely low-cut gowns ready to slide down their nipples, across their navels, below that sweet triangle of carnal pleasure.
He figured he needed a reward for turning Lady Sara up so sweet in a single night. His father would have been proud. She fell so easily to all that inane conversation about mystery, poisoned souls and dark secrets.
The only secret to tempt Kesseley waited in the curls between a lovely lady’s legs.
And it wouldn’t take long. In the few moments Bucky and Kesseley stood there, a throng of ladies lit to them like hummingbirds to nectar, teasing those beautiful breasts under their eyes. A variety of ladies to choose from, even removing the raven-haired vixens who reminded him of Henrietta.
In the corner, a doe-eyed auburn stunner regarded Kesseley from under her long lashes. She appeared demure, almost shy. Perfect. He disentangled himself and approached. Her eyes widened with panic as she looked about her for an escape.
Not again!
He halted, ready to turn on his heel. This was lower than he thought possible—to be turned away by a prostitute.
“No, sir, please,” she said. She had a fragile voice, the kind that melted strong men. “I want to dance with you, but there’s someone else…”
Kesseley bowed and gave her a smile, appreciating her kindness.
She looked nervously about, then stepped forward. “My name is Ann,” she said, as if confiding a secret.
“Kesseley, the Earl of Kesseley,” he returned.
“Earl,” she echoed. Her face was even more beautiful when confused.
He couldn’t help himself—he brushed away a dangling auburn curl from her cheek. “Perhaps there isn’t someone else after all,” he said, putting her small hand in his and drawing her onto the floor.
It was a sweet relief to dance in silence with no complicated intentions. She let him graze softly at her lips, her neck and the line between her swelling breasts. Each knew what happened next—he would whisk her away to her chambers and—
He felt a tap on his shoulder. “I believe this lady and I have some unfinished business to complete.”
Kesseley turned to find Gilling standing there, reeking like a distillery, with two other men flanking him. One fair and freckled with shoulders like mountains, and the other one skinny and dark, looking as if he thought he had shoulders like a mountain.
Why the two woodpeckers? Was Gilling afraid Kesseley was going to draw his cork in the middle of the Cyprian Ball?
He kissed his dancing partner’s hand. “My little darling. Should I set you free?”
“No!” she cried, clutching Kesseley, clearly not wanting to return to Gilling.
A nasty smile snaked across Gilling’s lips. “What’s a matter, Tommie?” he asked sweetly. “You have to get a whore because your mother’s little companion won’t open her legs for you?”
Kesseley dropped Ann’s hand. “What did you say?”
Gilling’s two male companions clamped their hands on his shoulders and tried to pull him away, but Gilling brushed them off. “I said, your mother should tell her champion what that sweet hole between her legs is for. Or hell, maybe I’ll just show her.”
Kesseley ran his finger under his cravat. “We can settle this two ways. I’m a pretty good shot, but nothing would suit me better than beating the hell out of you. And your two footmen in turn.”
“Did you hear that?” Gilling asked his mates. “Lord Kesseley wants to dance.”
Kesseley smiled. “That’s right, ladies.”
Gilling shoved the heel of his palm into Kesseley’s shoulder. “Pickering Place. You’ll be on your knees before the Watch can come. I’m giving you twenty minutes to change your mind.”
***
As it turned out, Kesseley had thirty minutes to change his mind. Word of the fight rippled through the crowd like a wildfire. Every man at the Cyprian Ball dropped his companion, and with wild glazed looks in their eyes, they all began shouting out bets like madmen.
The Watch couldn’t have broken into Pickering Place if they had tried. Human bodies packed the tiny wainscoted passage off St. James like a cork in champagne. The square itself was a tiny, grimy armpit of a courtyard. Men and ladies stoo
d shoulder to shoulder along the wall.
Kesseley couldn’t wait for the fight to start. He stood bare-chested, the cold wind whipping around him. Gilling threw punches into his freckled friend’s palm. He had a good twenty years on Kesseley, but still had the muscles of a younger man and the brash attitude to match.
Bucky hung about nervously in Kesseley’s corner. “Does your heir, the one in Winchester, have a rich sister? Because that freckled chap is a prizefighter from Scotland,” he informed Kesseley. “He ain’t lost a fight.”
Several lovely ladies standing around Kesseley cried with alarm.
He gave them a wink, feeling cocky and liking it. “His luck’s about to change,” he said, heading for Gilling, his bare fists raised.
Kesseley circled his opponent, anticipating, bouncing on his feet, letting Gilling throw the first punch. Gilling connected a decent jab to Kesseley’s ribs. Kesseley smiled. He dodged the fist intended for his face and answered with two stone blows to Gilling’s face. First the left, ramming his cheekbone, then a right under the chin, slamming Gilling’s jaw together with a sickening crunch. Blood shot up in the air like a waterspout and sprayed down on Kesseley. The lecher tumbled backward into people along the wall, then straightened himself and staggered back into the center.
He spat blood. “You goddamned country bumpkin. You wouldn’t know what to do with a woman even if she were sitting on your bloody cock,” he hissed.
The crowd, including Kesseley, laughed.
Then he drew back his right and jammed it deep into Gilling’s gut, lifting him from the ground. The man’s body collapsed around his fist. Kesseley threw him off, but the fool didn’t have the sense to fall, so Kesseley let off two powerful blows, slamming Gilling’s face and chest. The crowd let out guttural moans, as if hit themselves.
Gilling righted himself, breathing like an overheated bitch. He drew his fist back and delivered a weak punch that Kesseley caught with his hand. He pulled Gilling forward and smashed his forehead down on Gilling’s nose. The crunch of breaking bone and cartilage was audible. Gilling’s body went limp and dangled from Kesseley’s grip. He let go and the scoundrel puddled on the ground.
The crowd was silent except for Bucky, who danced about telling everyone how Kesseley and he had gone to Trinity together and what close mates they were.
Kesseley flicked Gilling’s blood off with his fingers and returned to his corner. His circle of female admirers had swelled. Their fingers massaged his warm, wet muscles. He threw his head back and let out a groan, feeling weeks and weeks of tension easing from his muscles.
The Scottish prizefighter stepped forward. Unlike Kesseley, whose muscles rippled all the way down his abdomen, the fighter was a hard, shapeless rock of brawn. He stood perfectly still on his large feet while Kesseley danced around, trying to figure him out. Finally Kesseley threw a right, just to have him answer. He did, with a scorcher to the jaw that sent Kesseley sprawling back into his corner and into the arms of his feminine admirers.
He rubbed his jaw. “Damn, you’re good.”
The Scotsman gave him a smug smile. Kesseley rose and went running at his opponent, taking lightning swipes at his ribs. The bruiser crunched sideways but still managed to nearly punch Kesseley’s guts out. Kesseley held steady, resisting the urge to throw up, and sent a fast fist to the Scot’s jaw. He didn’t see it coming, used as he was to opponents who needed more recovery time from his powerful punches.
Kesseley danced like a light-footed debutante around the alley, ducking and blocking the Scot’s slow, but deadly punches. The prizefighter was wearing down. Spit trickled down his chin and his eyes took on a dumb, blank look. Twice he swiped at the air. The third time, he caught Kesseley’s brow, sending him to the ground.
Kesseley touched his bleeding forehead, seeing the blood drip down his finger, and something broke in him.
He couldn’t recall the next few seconds, except in the end, he had the prizefighter trapped against the wall, punishing him with a flurry of lefts and rights, until the Scotsman slumped and slipped down. Several hands grabbed Kesseley and pulled him away. He ripped himself free to stand alone, cradling his bruised fists. His chest heaved with each breath. He swallowed the blood and sweat pooling in his mouth. “Where the hell’s the other one?”
It seemed Sir Gilling’s other friend preferred to keep his face in its proper order—he was nowhere to be found.
Kesseley returned to his corner and picked up his shirt. His knuckles had begun to swell and ache. He tossed his coat over his shoulders and replaced his shoes, then turned to his silent audience and bowed. “Let me apologize for Sir Gilling’s unbecoming comments at the ball and this disgraceful debauchery in the alley. Good evening.”
The crowd broke out in applause, refusing to let him pass.
The sweet auburn temptress ran up and flung her arms about him. “But we haven’t finished our dance.”
“And you didn’t dance with me!” a pretty blonde said.
“Or me!” a brunette charmer cried.
Kesseley didn’t dance, or at least not vertically. His fair Cyprians led him to a mirrored room. They took turns wiping his cut brow, their eyes full of concern, their heavy breasts lying invitingly against his arm. It was decided he was too injured to sit and must lie down, so they led him to the bed where their whispery fingers made short work of his shirt and shoes. He leaned his head against the headboard and cradled his swelling hands while watching the ladies perform a little dance for him.
Wine arrived, deep red, not the sugary misery from the balls of the other evenings. They held the glass to his lips, letting it run over, then kissed his face clean, his neck, his chest, his belly.
He felt soft fingers unclasp his pantaloons…
Silence.
“Oh my,” admired a sweet, feminine voice.
***
Henrietta waited in the parlor all night, curled up on the sofa, still in her evening gown. She listened for every passing carriage, yet none drew to a stop before the house. As the early morning sun rose into the coal-ridden sky, she heard loud male laughter from outside in the street. She went to the window. A group of bucks, including Kesseley, weaved drunkenly about the sidewalk. He waved them off and ambled up the front steps.
She ran into the hall as the door opened.
“Kesseley,” she said. “I-I waited for you.”
His eyes, burning under the shadow of his hat, raked over her. He cocked his head. The light from the torch mounted beside the door illuminated his bloody brow and bruised lip.
“Dear God! What happened?” she said, reaching for his face.
He grabbed her wrist. “Don’t.”
The scent of perspiration and sweet perfume hung about him. The loose knot on his cravat wasn’t the neat elegant one from the ball. Henrietta let out a whimper and tried to wrest her arm from his, the filthy black truth all about her.
Kesseley and another lady.
He held Henrietta tight, forcing her to see the truth. Then he released her and stepped past.
“Wait!” she cried.
He stopped but kept his back to her. “Yes?”
She had stayed up all night to tell him, and even in this wreckage, she ached to release the truth. “I didn’t mean for it to happen this way, but it did and everything has changed.”
“What are you trying to say?” he interrupted, as if she were wasting his time.
She felt like she was moving boulders with her heart. Her voice was a rush of breath.
“I-I wanted to t-tell you. Th-that—” She swallowed and drove the knife in. “I love you.”
He spun to face her, kicking up his coattails. “What?” he said harshly.
“I love you.”
He gently lifted her chin with the knuckle of his index finger and lowered his head, but stopped his mouth just shy of hers. She could almost feel the fresh memory of another lady on his lips.
“You’re a little late, Miss Watson,” he said.
Chapt
er Sixteen
Henrietta said she loved me.
The words howled in Kesseley’s brain.
Go back to her!
Instead he crashed upon his bed, remembering those ladies’ hands caressing his body just hours ago.
Yes, Kesseley. Yes, Kesseley.
What had Henrietta ever given him? Nothing. It was always about what she wanted.
He remembered the hurt in her brown eyes. Capital! May she know the pain he’d felt for years.
He slipped off his shoes. They thudded on the floor. The canopy swirled above him. Damn, he had drunk too much.
He closed his eyes and drifted back to the mirrored room and the fair-headed angel. The memory of her lips lulled him to the edge of sleep, then she lifted her head and stared at him with tearful chocolate eyes, all those beautiful blond curls turning to Henrietta’s midnight-black locks. “I love you,” she said. Damn it!
***
Henrietta didn’t call the ladies’ maid. She removed the pins from her bodice herself, tearing the sheer fabric beyond repair. She rolled and squashed it in the bottom of her clothes press. She loosened her stays and slid them over her hips. Then she crawled up in her bed, closed the drapes and drew the blankets over her head.
Mr. Elliot must be wrong. Surely a lifetime of regret was kinder than this acute despair.
She turned onto her side, gathered her limbs and wept until she lapsed into dreams.
Mr. Van Heerlen asked her to present her mother’s mathematical theories to the Royal Academy, but her mother had died before all the problems had been solved. So she worked frantically on the dining room table of the London townhome, but nothing equated, until Kesseley told her pi equaled 5.146573. That is wrong, she assured him. Wrong. Yet everything worked. But when she got to the Royal Academy, Mr. Van Heerlen told her she was too late and that he’d let someone else lecture. She could see Sir Gilling in a room, speaking above the shoulders of the people. She pleaded with Mr. Van Heerlen, saying this was her mother’s work and she had died before anyone could see it. He said if she waited until the afternoon, she could stand on the steps and speak as people left.
