by M C Beaton
He dragged a nightshirt on over his head and then faced her. “I would have thought you would be exhausted,” he said.
“I did sleep a little,” faltered Fiona. “But I had bad dreams.”
“Then come and lie with me, my love. I shall only hold you until you sleep.”
He climbed into bed and pulled back the blankets on the other side.
“Come!” he ordered.
Still clutching her wrapper tightly about her, Fiona shyly climbed into bed.
He pulled her into his arms and held her against the length of his body.
“Now, sleep!” he said.
He must be mad! thought Fiona. How could she sleep with her heart doing somersaults in her chest, with her breasts becoming hard and swollen, and with the searing memory of that one passionate kiss hardly ever out of her mind?
“Are you cold?” he asked softly. “You are shivering. I shall warm you.”
He began to stroke her back.
“Oh, no,” moaned Fiona. The stroking stopped immediately.
She propped herself up on one elbow and looked down at him. She was about to tell him she could endure no more and must leave. One kiss, mocked her mind, one kiss and then leave.
He looked up into her eyes and then his own began to blaze.
“No,” he muttered. “It must come from you, Fiona. I told you I would never bed an unwilling wife.”
She fell across his chest, and with a little sob, her searching lips found his.
What ensued was more like a battle than tender romance as the marquess released all the passion he felt for her and got it back in full measure from this Highland girl who had never been taught that ladies should lie back and endure it all passively. The blankets ended up on the floor along with their torn and tumbled nightclothes. The marquess’s old four-poster bed, which had been his grandfather’s, creaked and rocked like some storm-tossed ship riding out a gale. He had tried to warn her it would hurt, but the passionate creature in his arms seemed to relish everything and cry for more.
Finally, as they tired and their lovemaking became more sensuous, more languorous, his questing hand stilled the wanton body under him and he asked softly, “You are sure that nothing troubles you, my darling Fiona? There is nothing you could tell me now that could stop me loving you.”
But Fiona only buried her head in his chest and would not reply.
At last, when she fell asleep, the marquess stroked her hair tenderly and said, “Trust is all I need now, Fiona. A little trust from you and I will be assured you love me for myself alone and not for my fortune. Then I shall count myself the happiest man in England.”
His love gave a gentle, if unromantic, snore. He smiled and cradled her in his arms and then he, too, fell asleep.
ELEVEN
The sound of her husband washing awoke Fiona. She struggled up against the pillows. “What time is it, Charles?” she asked sleepily.
“Nearly eleven. Go back to sleep. I have an appointment with someone, but I shall return quite soon and then we shall take a pleasant drive somewhere.”
Fiona scrambled out of bed and clutched the ruin of her nightdress to her naked body.
“I had forgot, Charles,” she said miserably, “Euphemia Perkins is to call at eleven.”
“Then you will be shot of her by the time I return.”
“But Penelope, Mrs. Buxtable, is to call at three!”
He turned away from her and studied his face in the mirror. “Then I shall help you get rid of her.”
“No, you mustn’t do that!” said Fiona. “She wishes to talk to me about… about female things.”
“Then I shall make sure you are left alone with her.”
“I should really have much preferred to have gone driving with you,” said Fiona, feeling wretched.
“In that case, maybe the fairies will grant your wish and something will happen to make Penelope disappear.”
“I must dress,” said Fiona. “Euphemia will be here in a few moments.”
He walked over to her and held her naked hips. “Shall we send Euphemia away?” he said softly.
“No, no,” gabbled Fiona. “And you have an appointment, Charles.” A hard look crossed his face and Fiona looked at him pleadingly.
He looked down at her worried eyes and relented. “Go,” he said, giving her a little push.
Fiona dropped her tattered nightgown, seized the coverlet from the bed, and, wrapping it about her, ran to her own room.
She dressed very quickly, and then rushed downstairs in time to meet Euphemia, who had just arrived.
Euphemia, as soon as they were alone, poured out her woes.
“Does this Captain Gaunt have any money?” asked Fiona.
“Not very much,” said Euphemia. “But he says we could live in a modest way—very modest.”
“And have you no money of your own?”
“I have a small income from a trust from my grandmother. But what is the use? I am now seventeen, but still too young to be independent. My parents would never allow me to marry and I need their consent.”
“Then go to Gretna Green!” cried Fiona. “No one can stop you marrying there! You do not need your parents’ consent for a Gretna marriage.”
“But we do not have a traveling carriage. I mean, the captain does not have one.”
“Then rent one,” said Fiona impatiently.
“Captain Gaunt is not very good at arranging things,” said Euphemia, hanging her head.
“Goodness! How old is this captain?”
“He is twenty.”
“How does he expect to lead his men if he cannot even arrange a traveling carriage? Oh, do not look so miserable, Euphemia. I shall hire it for you. When can you leave?”
“Captain Gaunt wrote to me from his regiment in Shropshire. He is due to start a month’s leave next week.”
Fiona heard her husband moving about upstairs. “I shall hire a carriage for—let me see, this is the tenth—for the seventeenth. I shall call for you as if it is a social visit—”
“No, you cannot do that!” squeaked Euphemia. “My parents do not know I am here. I was told to have nothing more to do with you.”
“Why, pray?”
Euphemia hung her head. “I needed to explain to them why I wanted three thousand pounds. I told them you ran a gambling hell.”
“Oh, my poor reputation!” moaned Fiona. “Then tell this captain to call for me here. I shall find some way to get rid of Cleveden on the afternoon of the seventeenth. Tell Captain Gaunt to attend me here at three o’clock. Can you leave your house without your maid?”
“No, but she is very loyal to me and will come with me. She is here now, waiting in the hall.”
“Then come here as well!”
“But only imagine if we should be seen leaving together!”
“Very well. Hire a postchaise and take it to Barnet and wait at the top of the hill. I shall drive off with the captain myself and pick you up there and then return to Town after I have safely seen you on your way.”
“Oh, Fiona,” said Euphemia, beginning to cry, “I am so grateful to you. You are so resolute.”
“I am only doing all this under duress,” said Fiona dryly. She heard her husband’s step on the stairs. “Go quickly, Euphemia, and not a word of this to anyone!”
The marquess entered and looked curiously at the red-eyed Euphemia, who bobbed him a curtsy as she left the room.
He raised an eyebrow at his wife, but Fiona said in a colorless voice, “A trifling problem, Charles. Euphemia is easily overset.”
He glanced at the window. “Here comes your parents, my love. I must escape or I will never be on time for that appointment.”
He did not kiss her and Fiona felt worried. How could she have done such a thing as plan an elopement? If only she could unburden herself to her husband. But he would think she had only married him for his money and he would never believe she loved him.
Sir Edward and Lady Grant came in and Fiona was able to relax
somewhat as she answered their eager questions about Strathglass House and its neighbors. But as they were preparing to go Sir Edward said, “Fiona, I would be careful of that Lizzie girl. I am not quite sure whether she is stupid or malicious.”
“How so, Papa?”
“Although I have not gambled since that terrible time when I was rescued by Cleveden’s marriage settlement, it has been hard for me. I see a hunchback, or magpies, or a rainbow, and the old longing comes back…. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Papa. Although I myself have resolved never to gamble again, I find it hard to keep to my resolution. Sometimes something seems like a lucky sign or omen.”
“Exactly. Now, before my last gambling bout, Lizzie waylaid me in St. James’s Park and told me that on the road from Bath she had seen two magpies in the garden of the Green Man. One bird, she said, had a tattered ribbon ’round its neck and that ribbon was of the Grant tartan. Now, as you know, Lord Roderick Grant died there, so it seemed to me as if the ghost of that lucky gambler had come back to me through Lizzie.”
Fiona gave a superstitious shiver. “Perhaps she did see such a bird, Papa.”
“Only wait! T’other day, Lizzie came with Betty—the Duchess of Gordonstoun—and Betty was congratulating me on my reformed ways. When I set out for Lincoln’s Inn Fields, once more Lizzie contrived to follow me. She said she had been walking along Clarges Street and she had seen the ghost of Charles James Fox.”
Charles James Fox, who had died only a few years before at his home in Clarges Street, had been not only a famous politician and champion of the American Colonies in their fight for independence but a notorious gambler.
“She said,” Sir Edward went on, “that the ghost had handed her a playing card, the queen of hearts, and disappeared. Lizzie gave me the playing card, saying she felt sure the ghost meant it for me. My heart beat fast and I was rushing off to the tables, for the old fever was burning in my blood, when I met a lawyer friend who knew of my Fatal Tendency. I told him I was going to the club, and when he tried to stop me, I told him Lizzie’s story. He laughed in my face. In a fury, I showed him the playing card, and he laughed even harder. The playing card, he said, was manufactured by Bartholomew, who had only started in business two years ago. So, he pointed out, it was very odd that a ghost should have handed Lizzie a card from a modern pack. Perhaps Lizzie thought she saw something. Perhaps she makes up stories to feel important, but there is a thought in my mind that she might have done it deliberately.”
Fiona sat in silence while she thought hard. Then she said, “You know, Papa, once when I was telling Christine I would rather do anything than marry Cleveden—do not look so worried, I was only funning—Christine thought she heard someone outside my bedroom door. There was no one there when she looked, but Lizzie was in our home that day and Lizzie might guess that were you in deep debt, then you would force me to accept Cleveden’s hand. I think she hates me and yet I cannot guess the reason. I have never done her any harm.”
Fiona felt she was only telling a mild lie by saying she was joking about Cleveden with Christine. She certainly did not want her parents to remember the wager.
Lady Grant sighed. “Charles, her father, never would have anything to do with her. She was brought up in his household but treated always as a servant’s child. We never could find out the name of Lizzie’s mother. Charles is a close-mouthed bitter man.”
“Her situation is an awkward one,” said Fiona.
“But I will go carefully. Cleveden does not want me to have anything to do with her.”
But her parents had only been gone for half an hour when Osborne announced the arrival of Lizzie Grant. She tripped lightly in, holding out both hands in welcome.
“Where is the duchess?” asked Fiona.
“She is still asleep.”
“I hope you did not come unescorted.”
“Oh, no,” said Lizzie proudly, “I have my own personal maid. She is waiting outside.”
“Why are you come?” asked Fiona curiously.
“To pay my respects,” said Lizzie with a little laugh. “Also, I was worried about you, dear Fiona. All London was amazed when your husband sent you packing so soon after the wedding.”
“My husband did not send me packing, Lizzie, so if you are here to ferret out gossip about an unhappy marriage, I must tell you you are set for disappointment. I love my husband very much and we are very happy.”
“Oh, Fiona. So hard! That you should misunderstand my concern.”
“I do not trust you, Lizzie,” said Fiona. “I do not wish to see you again. The Duchess of Gordonstoun is a friend of the family, and if you come with her, then I shall be obliged to see you. I know now you were the one who tricked Papa into gambling and tried to trick him again. Why?”
Lizzie sat with lowered eyes. Fiona waited wearily for a burst of tears and protestations of innocence. But when Lizzie raised her eyes, they were bright with malice.
“And how goes the Marquess of Cleveden?” asked Lizzie. “How goes Miss Fiona’s Fancy?”
“So you know,” said Fiona evenly. “Now, get out!”
“Not before I have finished,” said Lizzie. “I am not your faithful lapdog like Christine to bow before you because of my bastard status. Why should you be pampered and petted and I neglected?”
“One could hardly say you were neglected. The duchess nearly ruined my chances of marriage in her efforts to put you first.”
“What else should my own mother do?”
“Your mother!”
“Yes.”
“This is another of your tales,” said Fiona. “When I first met you, I could swear the duchess was meeting you for the first time as well.”
“Almost.” Lizzie sneered. “Quite wild in her youth was Mama. After bearing me, she handed me over to Lord Charles and the only subsequent interest she took in me was to write to him when I was fifteen and suggest I be sent to London and put to a trade. But when she saw me again, her natural maternal affections came to the fore—although she hid them as well as she has hidden the secret of my birth. Once you were engaged to Cleveden, she did not try to put a spoke in your wheel, for, as she said, ‘He would have been better to have married you, my dear, but Cleveden is too much a man of the world and would soon have found out about your illegitimate status. You, dear Lizzie, will need to be content with some less important gentleman.’ I know your father’s debts forced you to marry Cleveden as well as that stupid bet. I know I brought that about. I hope you are unhappy, Fiona. I hope Cleveden beats you. It would do you good to learn what it is to be mocked and slighted.”
“I am not responsible for your accident of birth,” said Fiona.
“The whole world is unjust,” said Lizzie. “I am trying to even the score through you.”
She is mad! thought Fiona with a shiver. She rang the bell.
“Osborne,” she said faintly, “show Miss Grant out.”
When Lizzie had gone, Fiona relieved her pent-up nerves with a hearty burst of tears. Then she dried her eyes and tried to think what to do about Penelope and her poet. Euphemia would be taken care of, it was easy to sponsor Letitia Helmsdale—but what would Cleveden say if he found his home being used for Penelope Buxtable’s romance?
The Marquess of Cleveden’s appointment was with a vicar who was on the board of one of his charities. Matters were soon dealt with, and as he made his way back to the West End he wondered what to do about Penelope Buxtable.
Was Fiona being forced to concern herself with the three ladies because they had threatened to tell him of the wager? And would Mrs. Buxtable go so far as to use his house to meet her lover?
The more he thought of his wife’s worry and distress, the more convinced he became that her wager had led her into more trouble.
Instead of going home, he drove to the Cavalry Club and asked if Colonel Henry Buxtable was present. He was told the colonel was in the coffee room and made his way there.
Colonel Buxtable was a thin, tall
leathery man with a long face and a stern, uncompromising mouth. The marquess had met him before and so was able to talk easily about mutual friends until the colonel fixed him with a hard bright eye and asked, “But what brings you here, Cleveden? White’s is more your turf.”
“I am here to see if I can talk you out of calling me out.”
“But I haven’t challenged you to a duel!”
“I think you might,” said the marquess equably, “for I am about to interfere in your marriage. No, do not reach for your glove to strike me across the face until you have heard me out. Your excellent wife is a friend of my wife’s. She is a most romantic lady.”
