He kissed her deeply, and he lifted her up onto her horse. “I love you, Joanna.”
“I love you, Christy.” And then she was gone.
* * *
Dinner at Wilton House—the party’s last dinner before returning to London—was a raucous affair. The unhappy newlyweds were at swords’ point the entire night, which amused Lady Jersey and the Baron immensely.
Lady Cullingsley and the Scotsman had given up all pretense of seemly behavior, and were reduced to open embraces in full view of the company. The Baron of Cullingsley seemed more amused by this than anyone.
Lady Jersey’s little protégée, meanwhile, obviously felt the Baron’s ardor was cooling. Apparently, a few nights of her favors were sufficient to make him bored with her. She followed him closely all night, trying to flirt while he openly ignored her.
The party drank far too much. Lady Jersey did not. She stayed uncharacteristically sober.
While the party was exchanging good nights, Lady Jersey disappeared. It was thought she had retired early, due to a headache.
Christopher gladly escaped to his room. He reminded himself to push the chest against the door when he was ready to settle for the night.
The valet had left a crisp linen nightshirt out for him. Christopher stripped off his clothes. His thoughts were on Joanna. He could still feel her touch on his skin.
As he reached for the nightshirt, he heard a familiar voice. “No, please, don’t cover such handsomeness. Let me see all of you.”
It was Lady Jersey. She was lying in Christopher’s bed, half under the sheets, but with her famous bosom fully exposed to view.
This is obscene. Of all nights to do this, with my body still carrying Joanna’s scent—it’s a sacrilege. Why won’t this miserable old biddy just leave me alone?
He wanted to scream at her to get out of his room. His good breeding prevailed, however. “Lady Jersey, please, if I’ve done anything at all to suggest to you….”
“You haven’t needed to, lovely boy. It’s I who have decided that I must have you. I want to train you in the arts of pleasure. I can think of nothing else when I’m near you. Come over here to the bed, my love. Don’t keep me waiting any longer—I want you badly.”
Good God. What can I say to get her out of here?
He had a thought then. When Rosie had importuned him, he had told her why it was impossible—that he loved another. Women understood that, apparently. Surely, Lady Jersey would be sympathetic if he spoke to her of Joanna.
It was to be the single greatest mistake of his life.
“My Lady,” he began. “I am overwhelmed. Your beauty—it takes my breath away. How I wish I could avail myself of your charms. I would be so privileged. But…”
“But?”
“But I cannot. My Lady, I am not free. I love another. I cannot take your love, it would not be right.”
She turned to look at him. Her blue eyes were shards of ice in her frozen face. Any other man could have told him that if the look on her face were any indication, he had just made a mortal enemy.
“My Lady, surely you must understand. To be in love—there can be no other woman in the world for me.”
“Oh, I understand. I certainly do.” Her face was a mask of hypocritical goodwill. “To be so young, to love so purely, ah, there is nothing like it. And who is this fortunate young lady? I assume she is young. But not Miss Coleman, surely.”
“Yes, she’s young, barely eighteen. And no, it isn’t Miss Coleman. It’s someone I have known…oh, since I was very young.”
“Ah! A childhood sweetheart, then. Charming! And is she beautiful, this young lady?”
“So beautiful, My Lady. She has long, jet black hair, and amazing eyes—they are different colors. And her face, and her form—My Lady, she is like a goddess.”
“My! She sounds a veritable Aphrodite! You’re very lucky, it seems. And what is is the young lady’s name?”
Christopher stayed silent. He had said too much already. Lady Jersey is not to be trusted.
“You don’t wish to say? I’ll guess, then. Is it this gypsy girl I have heard about? Is it —Joanna?”
His shocked expression told her her arrow had hit its mark. “I’m right, then. Oh, fun!” She clapped her hands like a child playing a parlor game.
She rose and dressed herself quickly. “I’ll go now, my dear. I’ll leave you to dream of your true love. I shall have to think of a very special present to give the two of you before your wedding.”
* * *
Back in her own chambers, Lady Jersey let the cheerful mask slip off. She walked over to her looking glass. She was old, old. There were sharp lines between her nose and the corners of her mouth. The skin on her neck looked like crepe fabric, as did her eyelids. Much as she tried to use the most expensive potions on her hair, more and more silver was showing amid the gold.
What must she look like to a strapping youth of twenty-ish? What a fool she had been to go to his room and show herself to him naked. He must have been disgusted.
And this little gypsy wench with the raven hair—what did she look like with her gown stripped off? As he looked upon the time-ravaged body of the older one, was he thinking of the firm young breasts of the younger one?
In a fit of rage, she flung her hairbrush against the looking glass, shattering it. Now a hundred smaller images of her aging face stared back at her, instead of one.
She buried her face in her hands, sobbing harshly.
She would make the boy regret this insult to her. She would make both of them regret it. She would give them a wedding present, all right. It would be one that ruined their lives.
Chapter 17
Plans and Plots
Christopher had been back in London for several weeks. He had heard nothing from Joanna, but he assumed it might take her a while to get away from her family.
Meanwhile, his father continued to pressure him to pay court to Miss Coleman. By now, they were all but acknowledged as a pledged couple. They spent time every day in each other’s company, with Christopher’s older sisters, Lady Daphne and Lady Henrietta, playing chaperone. Or Miss Coleman’s maiden aunt would sometimes accompany the young couple.
They did all the things young men were supposed to do with proper young ladies. Miss Coleman rode in Christopher’s phaeton around Rotten Row, with the very respectable maiden aunt in tow. He took the ladies to the British Museum, and out for high tea afterwards. He learned her favorite flower—lilies—and arranged to have a bouquet sent to her daily.
And the more time he spent with her, the more he despised her. She had education of a sort, but only enough to make her look down on those who were uneducated. Her opinions were nonsensical, but they were stridently delivered. He learned not to challenge her.
Her shrill voice with its nasal drawl could be heard across any drawing room. She overdressed, draping herself with every expensive gewgaw she could fit on herself.
When he took her and his sisters shopping, she berated the clerks and shop girls, embarrassing even his insensitive sisters.
In short, she was dreadful. She was lacking in any sort of taste, decorum, or fineness of mind. He came to dread every minute with her.
His father pressed him to declare his affections and approach Mr. Coleman. “He’s very well disposed to you, my boy. He’ll be no obstacle to your marrying the gel. Or to a short engagement.’’
Her father wants her off his hands just as much as everyone else does. He’s probably counting the days until he can turn her over to me, and then she’ll be my problem.
No doubt at the Duke’s suggestion, his sisters joined in the campaign to get him married. “I’ve always thought a Christmas wedding would be so chic,” Lady Henrietta hinted. “With a wedding service at St. George’s of Hanover Square….”
Lady Daphne was more blunt. “Time’s a-wasting, Christopher. You’ll lose her if you keep stalling.”
I should be so lucky. Miss Coleman has promised my sister a matc
h with one of her wealthy cousins in Cornwall, and suddenly my sister sees an escape from spinsterhood. Provided I do my part and marry the blasted girl.
* * *
It was the middle of November when Christopher got a message from Rosie, passed to him surreptitiously by one of the Gresham House parlormaids. Joanna had made it to London and connected with Rosie. She was now staying at a proper private hotel near St. John’s Wood, which was owned by one of Rosie’s best customers. She was waiting for him.
Rosie wished him good luck. “And you’re right!” she wrote. “She’s very beautiful!”
Christopher smiled and made a mental note to send Rosie a fine pearl necklace from one of the better London jewelers. She’d like that—and she deserved it.
* * *
Joanna waited impatiently at the private hotel. She had had some small difficulties in getting to London—to be expected, since she had never before traveled by coach or seen a big city—but it was nothing her sharp young wits couldn’t handle. She had left her family with a brief note: “Don’t worry about me. I’ll come back home when I can.”
Joanna located Rosie, who was extremely kind to her. It was a revelation to Joanna that someone could practice a trade like prostitution, yet be so truly affectionate and good.
Rosie reveled in Joanna and Christopher’s love story, and Joanna had the great pleasure of sitting up with Rosie at night—when she wasn’t working, of course—and telling her story over and over again.
Joanna’s single homespun dress would never pass muster in London. So Rosie got some of the other women to donate cast-off articles of clothing. Through their generosity, and by means of Rosie’s skill with a needle—she was actually a passable dressmaker—Joanna soon looked quite well turned-out.
Within a few days, she had become quite a pet of the working girls. She had to leave, but Rosie assured her she would always have a friend. “If ever things don’t go the way you hope they will, we’re here for you,” Rosie said.
But of course everything would go well. If she and Christopher loved each other, what could go wrong?
Christopher soon came to her at Mrs. Maywood’s Residence for Ladies. But his visits were frustrating. He asked Mrs. Maywood if he could come visit Joanna daily and have tea with her in the public lounge.
But apparently that was the limit of what they could do. Joanna urged Christopher to come up to her rooms, if only for a little while. She wanted to kiss him—in truth she wanted more.
Christopher knew better. If Joanna had a man in her rooms, she would lose all respectability. Mrs. Maywood would toss her out on the street. Everyone knew the middle classes were even more straitlaced than the gentry about such things.
Even so many daily public meetings between an unmarried couple would raise eyebrows. Mrs. Maywood wanted no scandal attached to her establishment. But Christopher’s obvious nobility and shy manner with Joanna reassured Mrs. Maywood into bending the rules ever so slightly.
Joanna was going to be Christopher’s wife. He needed to protect her from any scandal, until he could bring her safely to the altar and then make a home somewhere with her.
It was agonizing for both of them. They could not even touch. All they could do was sit and chat in low tones, under Mrs. Maywood’s watchful eye.
They talked about their future. About their present, not much could be said, except that they had to endure it.
* * *
Lady Jersey was the first to notice Lord Clydekill’s daily absences from their social circle. He was seen in the evenings, of course, playing the role of the dashing young blade at every dinner and ball given by the haut ton.
But he was uniformly missing from daily events. He was not seen any more at his sisters’ weekly “at homes,” nor did he accompany them on their social rounds to drop cards on their friends. His smart little phaeton was not to be seen on Rotten Row, and he no longer took any of his fine horses out for a ride along the Serpentine River.
There was a mystery there.
By all appearances, Lady Jersey had dropped the Marquess of Clydekill from her inner circle. This caused no comment. Lady Jersey was always picking up bright young things, irrespective of gender—then dropping them as soon as they bored her.
It was known that Lady Jersey’s jaded palate always required fresh kill to satisfy her.
In truth, though, Lady Jersey had not forgotten Lord Clydekill, nor had she forgiven his rejection of her. Indeed, her hatred and her need for revenge grew daily. Self-righteous, sanctimonious young prig! A green, callow boy, to spurn her, the toast of all London! Did the Marquess think he deserved better than the beauty who had bewitched the very Prince of Wales?
At heart, though, what Lady Jersey could not forgive was how Lord Clydekill had taken her mask off and made her see what she truly was: a dried-up, overpainted old crone clinging desperately to her lost youth.
Lord Clydekill would pay. As would his little gypsy tart. They’d pay dearly for the sin of offending Lady Frances Villiers, Countess of Jersey.
Meanwhile, Lord Clydekill seemed always to be missing from polite society during daylight hours. Lady Jersey would soon get to the bottom of that! She instructed a couple of her grooms to dress inconspicuously and to follow the young Marquess on his daily errands.
It did not take much effort for the hired men to trace Lord Clydekill to Mrs. Mayfair’s Residence, and to ascertain he visited a certain guest there daily. A Miss Bagley, the grooms reported to her. Long, black hair. A little beauty, really. The Marquess appeared to be besotted.
Ha! I have them now. They will rue the day they crossed me.
* * *
Meanwhile, Christopher was going through his own private hell whenever he was home at Gresham House. Apparently Miss Coleman had complained to her father that Christopher seemed to have no time for her anymore. For the last couple of weeks, he had been too busy, it seemed, to take her shopping and for carriage rides.
Miss Coleman was too clever to unleash her rage directly on Christopher at this early stage of their relationship. She turned instead to her doting father. Amid a storm of tears and anger, she reported how badly Christopher was neglecting her.
Mr. Coleman, who could never prevail against his daughter’s tantrums, and who was always melted by his little girl’s pretty tears, took the matter immediately to the Duke. He bluntly reminded Gresham that he had already paid out a significant part of the girl’s dowry to fill the Duke’s private purse.
This could not go on. His daughter, who could have had any man in the kingdom, was being played for a fool by the Duke’s son. Already there was gossip. Why had no engagement been announced? Coleman would not see his daughter publicly scorned.
He laid out his conditions to the Duke. The engagement must be announced within the next two weeks. A splendid Christmas wedding would work nicely. Let it be said by the gossips that young Clydekill was so in love that he could wait no longer than that for his bride.
“See that this gets done, Duke. Or I’ll file a breach of promise suit in the courts, and I’ll bleed you dry in damages and drag your family name in the dirt.”
The Duke did not like being addressed so by his inferior. But he owed Coleman so much money already. His gambling debts from this Season alone were enormous, and must in honor be paid. So the Duke took the abuse in silence.
A bully himself, he could recognize a bigger one.
As a result, though, the Duke’s anger rained down on Christopher.
“All you have to do is wed the filly. Ask for her hand, endure a day’s ceremony, and you’re through the worst of it. Give her a baby from time to time, and the two of you can live separate lives. Is that so bloody hard, Christopher?”
Christopher, with the noose tightening around his neck, fought back. “‘Through the worst of it?’ Father, I cannot abide the woman. To be in the same room as her makes my skin crawl. Give her a child? I cannot bear to even touch her hand.”
“What are you saying to me?” Is he going
to balk at the post, like a skittish racehorse? By Gad, I’ll horsewhip him myself if he embarrasses me like this.
“I’m saying I cannot marry Miss Coleman.”
“Your grandfather would have broken a stick across my back if I had ever spoken to him that way. You’ll marry her, Christopher.”
“Father, I cannot and I will not.”
When did my son acquire that fierceness in his eye, that steel in his spine? This is all new. He’s never stood up to me before. The Duke could almost find it in himself to admire the boy.
But no. Christopher would not have his way in this, even if the Duke had to thrash him till he bled.
“You will do what I say.”
“No, Father, I will not. Not in this matter. Forgive me—I will serve you as a dutiful son in any other way you wish—but I will not give way to you on this.”
Leaving the Duke with his mouth open, Christopher turned and strode out of the room. He let the door bang ever so slightly behind him.
It was a revolution of sorts, albeit a tiny one.
* * *
This exchange between Lord Clydekill and his father did not occur entirely in private. There was a large dinner at Gresham House that night, and Lady Henrietta was for the first time acting as hostess at her widowed father’s table. By rights, Lady Daphne, as the elder girl, should have had that honor, but the Duke could not abide to publicly display her homeliness.
Lord Clydekill and his father had their argument in the library, while the dinner guests were milling about in the grand drawing room, sipping sherry and port and admiring the fine ancestral paintings on the walls.
Although the drawing room was noisy with the chatter of the guests, those nearest the connecting door to the library could hear raised voices. Being well-bred, they pretended to hear nothing.
Tamed By The Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 11
