Chapter Nine
Much like getting married, there was no benefit to being ladylike.
None whatsoever.
Gritting her teeth, Louisa continued to hold out her arms while a silver-haired, French-accented woman took her measurements for a wardrobe that would sadly fit like the proverbial glove. Two days after the curricle incident, the milliner, clearly intent on finding favor with a wealthy new customer who paid their bills promptly, had delivered the four new bonnets personally. Indeed, they were admittedly lovely. But once her parents had seen and exclaimed over them and George’s exemplary taste, her mother had swiftly arranged for a modiste from Cheltenham to visit. Four gowns, two day and two evening, would be delivered with all haste, in time for Lord Kildaire’s upcoming scheduled stay.
And Louisa couldn’t do a damned thing about it.
Not if she wanted George to remain in her parents’ good graces, as he currently was. Between the bonnets and his heroic rescue of her after the gross failures of the footmen—it stung terribly to know those two acts were practically ranked the same—her father had written George a bank draft for one thousand pounds, promising further bonus payments for “such good deeds.”
“Nearly done, mademoiselle,” said the modiste, adding numbers in a small ledger notebook with a stubby pencil. “Now, for the bodice of your gowns. A little enhancement, yes?”
“No,” replied Louisa, glaring ferociously at her.
The older woman blinked. “But mademoiselle, there is no shame in a little padding. All the young ladies, they have it, for when their bounty is less than generous.”
“I said no. No padding. I will have new gowns, but they will be all me. Do you understand?”
“Very well,” said the modiste, turning away and muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “damned bluestockings” in a distinctly non-accented voice.
“Then you won’t be needing me anymore,” said Louisa, stepping off the footstool and thankfully back onto solid ground. “I shall look forward to receiving the gowns. Good day.”
Almost at a sprint, Louisa hurried from the room and down the long gallery. At this point her various bruises throbbed, and she was so tired of ladylike activities she was about ready to scream, and keep screaming, for several hours. She needed to do an experiment. It didn’t matter with what, whichever combinations remained in her stillroom would do. Good grief, she could practically smell Sicilian sulphur in the air, and it was ambrosia to her senses…
She froze.
No, not practically smell. She could smell it. Burning.
But that was impossible. All her supplies, all her powders and liquids and collection of various minerals were safely locked away in her special antechamber, along with her textbooks and scribbled notes and framed portraits of Galileo and Sir Isaac Newton and Edward Jenner.
Breaking into a run, she followed the scent of brimstone as it got stronger and stronger, until she burst through the kitchens and out the side door into a paved courtyard.
And screamed.
“No! What are you doing?”
Her mother glanced sideways from where she stood overseeing a bonfire of Louisa’s hopes and dreams. Broken beaker glass, empty jars, smoldering mortar and pestle, charred books, and thick clouds of black and yellow smoke curling up into the bleak winter sky. “Botheration. You weren’t supposed to see this. But I am doing what should have been done a long time ago. Getting rid of this nonsense your grandfather began once and for all. It would have been beyond terrible for Lord Kildaire to accidentally find it after he arrived.”
“How could you?”
“Oh, enough with the theatrics, Louisa. No one has died. And now you will be able to concentrate fully on your future duties as a lady and wife and mother.”
Numb to the bone, Louisa stumbled away, hugging her arms around herself for warmth although it felt like she might never be warm again. Finally she got to the antechamber that had once been her stillroom, staggered inside and sank to her knees.
It was true. The empty, scrubbed clean shelves and writing desk confirmed her worst nightmare. Her mother had literally taken everything she held dear and burned it.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
For what seemed like hours, she knelt on the floor as tears burned her eyes.
“There you are!” said an exasperated voice. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
She didn’t turn around. “Go away, Mr. H-Howard. I’ll be out soon.”
“Am I allowed to inquire as to why you are kneeling on the floor of an empty room?”
The innocent words were an added knife to the heart. “I s-said, go away. We d-don’t have to spend every m-minute together, you know.”
He ignored her and marched into the antechamber, his tread overly loud in the stark hollowness of the room. “Are you crying?”
“No, damn it.”
“Liar. You are.”
Louisa hiccupped, only adding to her acute misery. “You should be pleased. Isn’t it the most ladylike of pastimes? Being a watering pot?”
“Not when there is real pain involved,” he said softly, crouching beside her and resting a big, warm hand on her shoulder. “What happened? You can tell me. If I can share the details of a blackmail letter and enormous bloody gambling debt, then you can tell me why you are so upset.”
“This was my science room. Up until about an hour ago, it was bulging with books and jars and notes and all sorts of powders and liquids to mix together. Now…” she said, gesturing limply around her, “it looks like this.”
George frowned. “Hmmm. Perhaps…your equipment and such has just been moved to a new home. A bigger home with more light?”
“Oh, it was moved all right,” she replied, choking on the words. “Out into the k-kitchen courtyard and turned into a b-bonfire. So, as my mother informed me, I can fully concentrate on being a l-lady and wife and m-mother.”
He sucked in a harsh breath. “Hell. I thought there was a strange odor in the air, like I’d arrived at the biblical land of brimstone…I can’t believe she would do something so cruel.”
“Where were you? You c-could have stopped her…c-convinced her not to do it.”
“I was in Cheltenham. I went there to post a letter to Mama, telling her about that damned bank draft. I couldn’t send it, of course. If I did, she might gamble it instead of settling bills and buying food…but that is by the by. Just bad timing.”
“Sounds like g-good timing,” she said, her voice shaky and rather pathetic, which irritated her no end. “You got something you wanted, at least.”
“No I bloody well didn’t. You think I wanted money because some bastard tried to hurt you and your father felt guilty? You think it didn’t claw me knowing I had no choice but to accept it because my mother and I are near bankrupt? Well, it did. It fucking well did,” he bit out. “And now, knowing your science things are gone…I’m livid.”
Seconds later she was hauled against his huge chest, and when one hand began to smooth her hair, the dam broke and Louisa sobbed into his shirt. “Everything. My mother took everything. Every last jar and beaker. She even burned my portrait of Edward Jenner!”
“The smallpox vaccine man? Good God. That’s just plain unpatriotic. But your mother didn’t burn everything, darling.”
“Yes she did!” Louisa cried, ignoring the warm tingle at being called his darling. “Do you see anything in this room?”
“She didn’t burn this,” he replied, and a hard rectangular object wrapped in crisp brown paper nudged her arm.
“What is that?”
George shrugged. “You’ll have to open it and see. But I’m fairly certain it is a collection of fashion plates. No, wait. A detailed instructional guide on the art of embroidering flowered cushions.”
“Cretin,” she said, tearing the string and paper away. “I will use it to wipe…ohhh.”
Stunned, she stared at the bound book in her hands. Or more importantly, the bold, cursive
letters on the front cover.
Elements of Chemical Philosophy: Part One, Volume One
Sir Humphry Davy
Scarcely believing her eyes, Louisa stroked the front cover. But the words didn’t change. George had purchased her a book from one of the great scientific minds of recent times, a man who had made incredible discoveries in chemistry and electricity. A man who had been knighted for his work and gave wondrous lectures at the Royal Institute of Great Britain.
As gifts went, it couldn’t be more perfect. But today of all days…
And at that moment she knew, her heart would belong to George Henry Edwards forever.
~ * ~
He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d bought the book.
But after sending the letter on its way to London, he’d seen the small but well-stocked shop on Cheltenham’s High Street, and on impulse ducked inside. The owner had been all smiles and courtesy, and rather than selecting newspapers from London or a tome on ancient history, George found himself asking for something a curious scientific mind with a bent for chemistry might enjoy. The volume by Sir Humphry Davy, a professor and lecturer he’d actually heard of, had been the strong recommendation. So he’d had it wrapped and ambled from the shop feeling an odd sense of satisfaction.
Until now, when the gift was opened and he didn’t know how she felt about it. Had he got the topic wrong? Did she prefer another branch of science? Perhaps she didn’t like Sir Humphry?
“Well?” he blurted, when the silence stretched far beyond politeness. “Is the book something you might like, or should I return it?”
Louisa jerked back, actually making a growling sound as she hugged the book to her breasts. “Mine.”
His lips twitched violently. “All right, all right, calm yourself. But you will have to put it down eventually.”
“Nonsense. I’ll have a special reticule made, one that ties around my waist. And I shall take it to bed. It can share a space with my penny novel about cocks.”
A bark of laughter escaped. “A high accolade indeed.”
“George…” she said quietly. “This is the best present I’ve ever received. Ever will receive. I love it. Sir Humphry is a man I greatly admire.”
And she wound an arm about his neck and pressed her lips to his. They were warm and sweet, and the familiar kick of desire coursed through his body. Except there was something else tempering it, something that kept the kiss tender rather than carnal. Confused, he pulled back slightly, and rested his forehead against hers, trying to get his bearings.
“Oh, you admire the man, do you?” he said eventually, to buy time so he could grasp what the hell was going on. How Louisa had turned him so upside down and inside out, that on any given hour on any given day he could want to strangle her while they fought like stray cats, fuck her senseless, or cradle her in his arms.
“Oh yes,” she said dreamily. “He is one of my heroes. And so young and dashing, too.”
“Indeed?” he said, unaccountably stung. “Well, unfortunately he is not free to marry. So any ideas you might have of the two of you living in a blissful haze of nitrous oxide for the rest of your lives are doomed to fail.”
“George! Are you…are you jealous?”
He scowled, heat flashing across his cheekbones. “Of course not. I’m just pointing out an undisputable fact.”
“And how do you know he is not free to marry?”
“The book is dedicated to his wife,” he muttered, his flush leaping to raging inferno.
“You read it?” Louisa’s eyes widened, and she opened the book and flicked through the first few pages. “‘To Lady Davy’…hmmm. Oh, oh. George, this last part. ‘Receive it as a proof of my ardent affection, which must be unalterable for it is founded upon the admiration of your moral and intellectual qualities.’ Have you ever heard anything so romantic?”
That did it. When George returned to London, Sir Humphry Davy would be receiving a courtesy nostril rearrangement. “Quite good for a chemist, I suppose. Which means you’ll have to work on your declarations of love before you publish anything. The standard has been set; you won’t be able to get away with merely an ode to your favorite Latin words plus a few bloody hells and damnations thrown in for good measure.”
Instead of laughing or blushing at his quip, her whole face fell. “That won’t be me, though, will it? I won’t be doing experiments and testing explosives and writing words of love and gratitude to my indulgent spouse. I’ll be at balls and teas in form-fitting gowns, and talking about the weather with other equally miserable women who don’t have climaxes and can’t stand their lordly husbands.”
“No. We’ll find you a decent peer. Really decent,” he said, even as he wanted to thump every unwed man with a fucking title. “Not stuffy, someone who’ll let you play with powders and bubbling liquids, and keep a running account with warehouses carrying scientific equipment, and read tales about cocks. Oh yes, and will make you come.”
Louisa gripped his arm, her gaze pinning him to the spot. “You promise?”
“I promise.”
“Then you must help me fend off Lord Kildaire.”
“I will. But first you must tell me exactly what happened. Standish is about the most astute judge of character I’ve ever met, and he has no time for Kildaire. And yet most ladies swoon over him.”
She shuddered. “My mother is enraptured. Which is nothing unusual, all she requires is an ancient title for a man to be perfect. Yet Belinda is in transports over him too, and she is not a twit…I guess on the surface he is very good looking. Charming. And that Irish accent no doubt lulls many into thinking him gallant. But his eyes, George. It is like looking into an abyss. So cold and dark and soulless. And the things he said…”
Rage bubbled. “What did he say? I didn’t like the way he held your wrist at the ball. It looked more like a shackle than a lover’s touch.”
“It was. Lord Kildaire talked of breaking me in. That he would correct me. And that it was a shame that maidenheads could only be taken once, because he enjoyed hearing pain.”
Christ. He was going to vomit. Kildaire was another Sir Malcolm Edwards.
How did he not know this already? Although, like his stepfather, the marquess seemed to have an unusually high level of influence in London. Perhaps he too ensured silence through fear and injury and humiliation.
“That bastard.”
“It’s not the worst of it,” she whispered, tucking her head in the curve of his neck.
“What? How can there be worse?”
“He said he had associates…and I would learn to love them, too.”
“No,” he snarled. “Not now. Not ever. I’ll fucking kill him with my bare hands.”
“You can’t. He’s a marquess, they would hang you. For goodness sake, not even Papa could do or say anything. Trade money is nothing against the ton. We both know that.”
George forced himself to breathe evenly, to not give into the fury that made him want to put a fist through a wall. Everything Louisa had just said was absolutely true. The world was about power, who had it, and who did not. Women had little, but a man with no land, no money, and no title had none whatsoever. Which meant apart from his brawn, he was next to useless as a protector for Louisa. Especially here in Gloucestershire where his own powerful connections were so far away.
“I wish we were in London. At least there the Lords could build a fortress of rank and influence around you like they did with my sister before she married Stephen. We have no friends here. And unfortunately your parents don’t either. They are far too new to the county.”
She sighed, and sat back. “While I dearly appreciate the sentiment, that fortress of rank and influence drove Caro to the point of madness. And it would do the same to me. Freedom is a precious thing, George, as you well know. And women like Caro and I can’t be smothered, or we wilt and die.”
“What would you have me do, then?” he said, as his gut churned. He’d only ever known one way, and that was to pr
otect the women he cared about. He’d done it his whole fucking life. He couldn’t just stop doing it. Not when a tangible danger threatened.
Louisa’s upbringing had been so sheltered. She didn’t know what it was like to be beaten or burned. To be assaulted with weapons. To be trapped in a nightmare day in and day out with someone who took sick pleasure in inflicting pain. Kildaire’s words, while twisted, would only be the beginning. Men like him and Sir Malcolm only got bolder as those around them slowly broke, their defenses whittled away by weeks and months and years of torture. Who pretended in public while being dead inside, or tried to bury the pain in liquor or opiates or gambling.
Hell. This was, officially, hell.
~ * ~
“Louisa! Louisa! Louuuuueeeeeeessaahhh!”
Shuddering at the way her mother turned her name into a banshee wail, Louisa pasted a smile on her face just as her bedchamber door crashed open.
“Yes, Mother?” she asked, scrupulously polite as she looked up from her writing desk, thankful the wail had given her time to put away George’s precious gift.
“He’s here!”
“Who is here?”
“Oh, do not use that tone with me. Lord Kildaire. Your future husband.”
“Perhaps you might wait until he offers? Or at least has a chance to get out of his carriage before you start planning his future?”
Margaret Donovan didn’t answer, merely gripped her arm and dragged her toward the hallway. “Don’t talk. Smile. You’re going to be a marchioness.”
Over her dead body she would.
Nerves jangling in her belly, Louisa concentrated in putting one foot in front of the other as they descended the staircase to the foyer. One of her old orange or peach gowns would have been most welcome at this moment as a form of comfort, but unfortunately all she had was a pretty, very ladylike day dress of sprigged muslin trimmed with a sapphire blue bow that matched one of her four new bonnets. Her sizzled section of hair had grown slightly, just long enough to scoop back with a pin, and she wore satin slippers on her feet.
Rake to Riches (The London Lords Book 2) Page 13
