The Disgraced Marchioness

by Anne O'Brien

  Perhaps because there was no love between them. That was the easiest conclusion to reach, the voice of cold sense and caution warned him. Perhaps the basic hunger of a virile man for a beautiful woman had now been assuaged. Perhaps the burning need to touch her, to possess her, had been cauterised by that one moment of brilliant, diamond-bright madness.

  Perhaps. But he could not believe it.

  Yet it would be better if that were so. Too many shadows surrounded them. The past with its weight of guilt and denial. Thomas, who had willingly taken her as his wife, a role that Eleanor had equally willingly accepted. And, not least, the pathway forward, which was too indistinct and uncertain to decipher. He should pray that this shimmering need had indeed been burned out in that final moment of glory.

  But he had worshipped her with every movement of his body, every caress. Shown her consideration even within the towering demands of his passion. Never pushed her beyond what she was prepared to give to him. And she had given him everything with a generosity beyond measure.

  All he wanted was to take her into his arms and repeat it.

  And what he could possibly say to her when they came face to face on the following day, he could not envisage.

  Little wonder that sleep evaded him.

  The house in Park Lane began to hum with unusual bustle at the prospect of a small evening party for members of the Faringdon family and a select number of close friends. Mrs Stamford, in her element at having been given carte blanche by Lord Henry, took it upon herself to organise a tasteful, even cosy, evening with the hint of expensive sophistication. Eleanor too found her thoughts given new direction, away from the looming catastrophe of her social status, but her activities did nothing to redirect her mind from thoughts of her outrageous behaviour on the night of the Sefton soirée. She could blame it all on Henry, of course, who had lured her into such a provocative response. Had she actually removed her own chemise? She closed her eyes against the vibrant recall, but her blood heated at the image of his fierce eyes on her exposed body. But honesty forced her to acknowledge her own very willing complicity. He would have left her if she had allowed it, had resisted him to any degree. And she had done neither. Rather, she had flung herself into his arms. She closed her eyes in delicious sensation, ignoring the lists of guests beneath her hand as she sat at the elegant little desk in the blue parlour. He had fired her blood and she had stepped into his embrace and into his bed without hesitation. And she very much feared that she could be lured again.

  What must he think of her, of her wanton behaviour? She had no idea. And it had to be admitted, as she sat contemplating the sunbeams stealing across the paper before her, she did not seem to care. All that mattered was the image of his intense loving, the desire that had burned in his eyes and in the heat of his restless mouth. It had swept her beyond thought and conscience. He had wanted her and given in to the temptation. She hugged that thought close as she realised that she had discovered within herself the power to drive him beyond control. She held her breath at that thought, releasing it slowly as she also discovered an overwhelming desire to repeat the experience. It was, she acknowledged, a morning for unsettling revelation.

  But he had uttered no word of love. Not once, in all the other words he had whispered in the dark expanse of his bed. But then, neither had she. Surely he must have some affection for her. The line between her brows deepened, as she once again demanded honesty from herself. But it was not affection she wanted from him. It was a blaze of love and passion to sweep all before it. Perhaps men were capable of such physical desire without the need for love and she must accept it. But she loved him—and knew it beyond doubt.

  Her fair skin shivered at the thought and became suffused with colour. Yes, she loved him, but that did not mean that she wished every glorious detail to be imprinted on her memory every waking moment of every day! Or in her restless dreams. She huffed out her breath in frustration as she focused on the list on the desk, seeing Hal’s name written again and again in the margin. With an unladylike hiss, she tore the page in two, consigned it to the flames, and began another. Then, she admonished herself, she must turn her mind to the far more important matter of staff to serve the food and wine to so many guests.

  Although she would have preferred to take herself to the opposite ends of the house, even the attics, Eleanor found need to run Henry to ground in the small morning room which he had taken over as office, in lieu of a library in their rented home, and a masculine haven to escape the women of the household.

  ‘I need to know about staff, my lord. Do we hire more foot-men? Do I leave it to Marcle to decide what is necessary?’ She kept her distance, remaining with her back against the closed door. She looked anywhere but at his face.

  ‘Yes. You need not concern yourself. I have already spoken to him and, unless your mama decides to serve a seven-course banquet, God help us, we should cope more than adequately.’

  ‘Very well.’ She was well aware that Henry had hardly looked up from the table at which he was sitting. Which was perfectly acceptable as far as she was concerned! She would have left with a swirl of muslin skirts, but noticed a pile of letters spread before him, some distinctly travel-worn, through which he was steadily wading. They clearly took all his attention. It pricked her conscience and it enticed her to stay, to approach.

  ‘Mr Bridges?’ she enquired, remembering his enthusiasm when discussing his new partner and their fledgling company.

  ‘Yes.’ He smiled and answered abstractedly. ‘I seem to have received a lot of correspondence, all in one batch. The post is still haphazard.’ He discarded the top sheet and went on to break the seals on the next. ‘A matter of new investments that we hope to take up. Nat has a mind to put some money into a new textile town in Massachusetts. He sees it becoming a second Manchester. And he could just be right. Power looms will make all the difference and there is plenty of water to drive them…’ He gave his attention back to the letter under his hand.

  She looked at his bent head. Tried not to think of the smooth texture as she had curled her fingers into his hair. Or allowed her lips to trace those elegant cheekbones. And she could not possibly look at his hands without reliving their demanding caresses on her own body. A little shiver feathered across her skin and she silently damned him for reawakening such heady desires.

  And then she looked once more at the piles of correspondence, noting Henry’s preoccupation with the advice of the absent Mr Bridges. It was all the proof she needed, as if she needed further confirmation, that he would go as soon as he could. The reinforcement of the knowledge destroyed all her remembered pleasure and her present composure in one fatal blow. Her heart ached in anticipation of the loss.

  ‘I think you should return to New York,’ she found herself saying brusquely, even though her soul shrieked its denial.

  Henry now looked up, attention definitely captured by the harsh edge rarely heard in Eleanor’s voice.

  ‘Your business cannot wait for ever. Mr Bridges must feel the need of your presence.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ He had not expected this from her. The strain was showing this morning in her colourless skin and the shadows beneath her lids. Even her eyes had lost their sparkle. He realised that she was near breaking point and felt helpless to do anything constructive to alleviate it. Thus his answer was carefully worded. ‘But Nat is quite capable of holding the fort for a little while longer. This is merely informing me of decisions he has made in my absence—and I would have done no different. My business is in good hands.’

  ‘What use is there for you to remain here?’ She was cold, so cold. ‘There is no guarantee that our little event on Saturday night will produce anything of value. You cannot alter the demands of the law if Sir Edward’s claims are genuine.’

  ‘No.’ Henry now rose to his feet, sensing her distress, intent on taking her hands to offer comfort. ‘I trust the Baxendales have replied that they will honour us with their presence on Saturday?’

  ‘
Oh, yes. I doubt they could resist being introduced to the family, as you planned. But what will Aunt Beatrice remember? Perhaps nothing. It is a wild goose chase.’ Eleanor took a step back.

  He shrugged, allowing her to retreat against his better judgement, unwilling to damage the brittle shell which was holding her together. All she said was perfectly true.

  ‘Go back, Hal.’ Eleanor turned away and walked to the door.

  ‘Nell.’ His voice stopped her. ‘I cannot go back. Not yet.’

  She stood silently. He had heard the desolation in her voice—she had not been able to prevent it.

  ‘Do you really wish me to do so?’ he asked gently.

  Now there was an impossible question. ‘Yes. I think you should go.’ How cold her voice sounded in her own ears. What would he think of her now?

  ‘Nell…’

  ‘No, of course I do not wish you to go! You must know that. But it might be better if you did.’ The words, the stark truth, were wrung from her.

  ‘Better for whom, Nell?’

  But she closed the door behind her without reply.

  Hal was left, hearing the echo of the sharp click as the barrier closed between them. The need to give comfort to her was so great it frightened him, as did the yawning abyss between them. Although he had to accept, with more than a little disgust, that comfort had not been uppermost in his mind when he had all but dragged her to his room. Possession. Need. The control that he had spent years in perfecting had snapped in that one moment when she had raised her eyes to his, had begged him to stay, begged him both with and without words, but none the less with transparent longing. And she had allowed herself to be drawn along, as a leaf in a whirlwind, answering his every demand.

  His mind once more stumbled over the fact that he had not told her that he loved her. And perhaps it had been deliberate. And certainly sensible—probably the only commendable part of his behaviour towards her that night. To burden her with his love, against her wishes, would be cruel and insensitive. He hoped, in the inner recesses of his mind, that she would know that she held his heart in her keeping. Remembering her final words, he doubted it, and perhaps it was for the best. He would do all in his power to rescue her from the scandal created by Sir Edward Baxendale and then would indeed return to America for good.

  By nine o’clock on Saturday evening, the rooms in Park Lane, perfectly arranged to Mrs Stamford’s exacting standards, were soon flatteringly full. Not as elegant as Lady Sefton’s soirée, of course. No music had been provided. No poet—thank God! But conversation, cards for those who wished it and an extensive supper, all hosted by Lord Henry at his most urbane and the Marchioness of Burford in softest dove grey, but without the Faringdon diamonds.

  Sir Edward and Miss Octavia Baxendale had duly arrived, two of the earlier guests. Octavia was swathed from high neck to ankle in black, as severe and unflattering as ever to her slight figure and pale colouring, and seemingly reluctant to attend any social occasion, but she had smiled prettily and thanked Eleanor for the considerate invitation. She hoped that attention would not be drawn to them. They were simply friends of the family. Eleanor smiled reassuringly, but sardonically. Had Octavia given no thought as to why they should be putting up at Faringdon House when the Marchioness and the rest of the close family were living in Park Lane? Surely she could not be so naïve as to think that there would be no speculation or innuendo? Heaven only knew what people made of it! But Octavia appeared oblivious to the speculation and interested glances.

  What did she and Octavia find to talk about as she led the lady to a seat and found some refreshment for her? Afterward Eleanor could not remember. Octavia was decidedly dull, with no opinion of interest to offer on even the most frivolous of topics, once the condition of her rose garden and neglected flower borders had been thoroughly discussed.

  Eleanor delivered her with some relief into the safe keeping of Aunt Beatrice and found herself drawn into a few unsettling words with Sir Edward. It was an embarrassing, anger-provoking conversation, despite being quite private. Even though she was aware of Henry’s hawk-like eyes on her in case he sensed her distress. She was angry, she thought, on any number of occasions recently, but put on her best sociable manner as hostess.

  Sir Edward was as kind and compassionate, as sensitive to her situation as he had been throughout the painful developments. His fair countenance, with all the gravity of deep concern, should have comforted her. It did not. She took a step back when he would have touched her hand in sympathy. She found herself being complimented on her appearance and her fortitude under adverse conditions, which promptly set her teeth on edge. Henry might do so—but not Sir Edward. And her courage was remarkable in holding a social occasion—however informal—when the whole town was so obviously talking and smiling in derision behind its collective and judgmental hand. Eleanor held her breath until the urge to express her true sentiments in less than flattering terms had calmed.

  Sir Edward bent his kind and understanding smile on her. ‘I believe that Hoskins will have confirmed the legality of all documents by next week, my dear lady.’ How dare you address me with such familiarity! I am not your dear lady and never will be! ‘I have discussed the ultimate outcome with him, of course.’

  How dare you!

  ‘We must end this unsatisfactory situation soon. For your sake and for my dear sister’s. To postpone the final settlement would be unwise.’

  How dare you choose my social event for such a sensitive matter!

  How dare you and your sister even exist!

  ‘You are too considerate, sir.’ Eleanor’s clenched jaw ached.

  ‘I have instructed Hoskins to offer an annuity for yourself and the unfortunate child. Will you take it?’

  ‘I am considering it.’ She marvelled at her even tones. At the smile which remained in place.

  ‘There will be scandal, but it is unavoidable. My sister must take on her rightful title. She is very keen to be settled, as you might imagine.’

  ‘Of course.’ She continued to smile. She knew that Henry would bear down on them if she appeared in any way distressed—but her eyes were empty of emotion rather than unladylike, and rigidly contained, fury.

  ‘And we must then discuss your moving to your own accommodation, of course. I believe that Octavia would wish to take up residence as soon as possible at Burford Hall. Life in town does not suit her. She enjoys country air.’

  ‘I will inform Hoskins of my arrangements, Sir Edward. They are all in hand.’ But I will not discuss them with you!

  Still keeping a tight hold on the anger that seemed to be directed equally at Sir Edward, at Thomas and at fate in general, Eleanor moved through the rest of the evening like a child’s puppet, automatically fulfilling her role. It seemed to be a success. She was complimented more times than she could count. She did not care.

  After supper, at which she ate nothing but an asparagus tart-let without even tasting its succulent and delicate flavour, Eleanor made it her policy to find her aunt by marriage in a quiet corner where they would be undisturbed. Lady Beatrice had been able to watch and speak with Sir Edward and Miss Baxendale for a whole evening. She must have some recollection of any past meeting, if any such meeting had occurred. Eleanor had to know. Had Thomas cared for Octavia? Enough to have married her against family opinion and have a child by her? One more tiny nail in the coffin that was threatening to enclose her entire life. As cold as death itself, Eleanor faced the lady. Sensing her purpose from across the room, and not wishing her to be alone when his aunt delivered in typically forthright manner any bad news, Henry moved, silent as a ghost, to appear at her shoulder, to take up the initiative.

  ‘Well, Aunt. You said you remembered Thomas flirting with a fair girl. You have had the opportunity to see the lady and her brother. Do you remember her?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ The Dowager, remarkable in puce satin and lace with garnets, which did nothing to compliment her fading red hair, turned her critical gaze on the innocent ob
ject of their discussion. ‘I remember her. She was a pretty little thing. Still is, of course but a trifle pale—understandable in the circumstances, whatever the truth of the matter. Thomas certainly had a tendre for her. Showed her a great deal of attention, in fact. Dancing with her on more than one occasion…more than I thought was appropriate. It does not do to raise pretensions and it was clear that the girl saw the glitter of a title within her reach. Judith was perfectly right. Thomas and the girl were infatuated—such a very unfortunate emotion, don’t you think.’

  ‘Oh.’ Eleanor forced her mind to hold the dreaded words.

  ‘I actually warned him off on one occasion—the child was far too provincial for my taste. Not suited to be Marchioness of Burford. Not like you, my dear.’ She patted Eleanor’s unresponsive hand with superior condescension. ‘You have a touch of class, as I was quick to tell Thomas when some of the family expressed their disappointment at his choice of bride.’ Realising what she had said, she coughed and spread her fan. ‘Your paternal uncle is, after all, a baronet. Most acceptable, my dear. But that is all in the past.’

  ‘So it is true…’ Eleanor sighed ‘…Thomas did marry Octavia.’ Henry took Eleanor’s cold hand into his keeping and refused to let her pull away. At that moment he did not care who might see or pass judgement.

  He simply needed to touch her.

  ‘It may well be. He certainly did not take my advice, if rumours do indeed run true.’

  Eleanor looked up at Henry, eyes over-bright. ‘It is hopeless, then, as we thought.’ But she tried to keep the smile. She would not weep. She would not shout her despair to the world. ‘At least we know—it is better perhaps than all the uncertainty. False hope is almost impossible to live with.’