“He also said he’d have the pavilion leveled, my lady, but he never did,” the housekeeper confided. “Have you seen it yet? ’Tis on the far side of the garden, as pretty a sight as you’ll ever see, all carved with flowers and designs the like I’ve never seen. When I was a child, I remember the parade to the garden when his women wished to sit there. The men so tall, turbans reaching to the sky, carrying piles of pillows, scattering them around the marble benches so the ladies could sit in comfort. Mr. Bertram winked at me once when I was no more than sixteen and said his men did not care for waiting on women, so he’d offered them a chance to become proper women’s servants by submitting to the knife and they’d chosen, instead, to do as Mr. Bertram wished. I was never quite sure what he meant, but I’ve remembered it because it was so odd.”
Having no desire to shock her housekeeper, Beth bit her tongue to keep from blurting out the truth about eunuchs. Terence had passed along that tidbit of information when they were quite young, both of them engrossed in Tildy reading aloud The Arabian Nights.
“I shall ask my husband about the key, and I shall find the pavilion. Thank you very much, Mrs. Ferris. It has been a most instructive day.” Beth waited while the housekeeper carefully locked the room and checked the handle. Her instinct was to run straight to Rodney, but he was closeted with his estate agent, so she donned her half boots and a heavy cloak and found her way out a back door into the gardens.
A dreary, almost sad, place at the ending of the year, with little sign of the glorious rebirth to come with the warm breath of spring. Beth followed pebbled paths through rose stalks decorated only with their thorns, a few brown curling leaves scattered at their feet, past mums, asters and rudbeckia which had had their day. Past Chinese lanterns which still clung to the stalk, now faded to brown. Past the dark green of low-lying juniper and bare brown beds waiting to burst into a striking panoply of daffodils and tulips. Through a break in a tall hedge of yew, down a long tunnel of woven branches created in the medieval style . . . and there it was. A pavilion capped by a minaret dome with a pointed top. Six pink marble columns set in a circle, the capitals carved with a variety of fanciful beasts. Flowers and birds ringed the roof above, forever beautiful, untouched by chill December. The floor of the small temple to beauty was a marble mosaic in pink, white and black, the geometric design an eternal compliment to the unknown artisan who had designed it.
She would come here, Beth vowed, as soon as the weather permitted. Was there another room somewhere, perhaps in the attics, where the silken pillows lay forlorn and forgotten? She would ask Mrs. Ferris.
Rodney laughed when she told him about the Treasure Room. Nonsense, he scoffed. What did she know about such things? No, there wasn’t an inventory, and he’d be damned if he’d allow her to create one. Heathen trash, that’s all it was. Why waste her time?
So Beth had not told him about the books she’d found, quite by accident, in the library. He couldn’t know they were there, for to these extraordinary books neither the earl nor her husband would be indifferent. The books would join the other items under lock and key. Or, more likely, Rodney would take them to his room for his perusal alone.
When Beth had come across the first one, she’d peeked inside the heavy volume and nearly dropped it on her toes. A sound rasped in her throat, she forgot to breathe. Guiltily, she surveyed the entire room, let out her breath on a sigh of relief when she found it empty. Her first instinct, the reaction of a well-brought-up young lady, was to return the book with its elaborately embossed leather cover to the shelf as rapidly as possible. Her second thought . . .
Lifting a tentative finger, and feeling quite wicked, Beth turned the thick parchment page. Oh, my! She was certain her cheeks had gone from pink to crimson. Probably the rest of her as well. Once, many years ago, she’d overheard one of her father’s captains making ribald jokes about the number of children to be found in eastern countries. Beth turned another page. Another. If the people of the eastern lands knew this many ways of making babies and actually created books to show them how to do it, well, it was no wonder . . .!
Truthfully, after the initial shock had passed, she found the graphic illustrations . . . delicious. Terence had some pottery like this, she recalled. At age eleven she’d discovered the strange pottery shapes when she’d sneaked into his room one day—and been caught staring open-mouthed at the figures, wondering what they were doing.
“Mochica. Peru,” Terence had snapped, “and it’s none of your business what they’re doing.” He’d taken her firmly by the elbow and ejected her from his room. Now, recognizing the same shocking positioning of the duo in the ancient Indian painting as in the Peruvian pottery, the scene in Terence’s room came flooding back. If Tildy had ever found out . . .
But then, Miss Matilda Spencer would never have stooped to snooping in Terence’s room.
Beth heaved a sigh. How she missed them both. Papa and Jack as well.
Alone. She was so alone.
Returning to the book, she studied several more pages, keeping an ear out for footsteps. She could never tell Rodney about her discovery. Impossible to hint at experimenting with some of these novel intimacies. He would instantly brand her a whore.
A month ago she had expected their easy camaraderie to extend into marriage. If she had known about this book, she would have expected to show it to her husband. They would peruse it together, allowing the blatant sexuality of the paintings to heighten their arousal until they chose one particular variation and, glowing with passion, retired to their bedchamber to try it.
Beth slammed the book shut, fitted it back onto the shelf, carefully straightening the volumes so there was no sign of disturbance. Suddenly, her knees threatened to buckle. She grabbed the back of a well-worn green leather wingchair, using it as a crutch until she could sink into its welcoming depths. Her body was registering fears she didn’t want to face. But she must. She stared into the soft red glow of the logs in the black marble fireplace and contemplated her short few weeks of marriage.
Somewhere in the world there was love, but not at the Refuge. Her husband was attentive, taking her on excursions onto the moor, some on horseback, other times on paths which allowed room for nothing more than two booted feet and a walking stick. Out on the moor Beth could be happy. A bride companioned by her husband, each day filled with new discoveries. But at night when Rodney hung above her, his face increasingly grim, she learned nothing new at all. He would play with her a bit, gray eyes shuttered, revealing nothing. Yet when she reached for him, or made any effort to return his caresses, he would withdraw, hands still, body rigid.
A mystery. Before their marriage, he had encouraged her to intimacies she had never dreamed of. Now, when they were man and wife, he seemed to reject her overtures. Yet he continued to come to her every night. Beth had begun to wonder why. One of the things Terence had told her was that the intimacies between men and women were not, as the church so often said, solely for the procreation of children. Physical relations—Terence’s careful euphemism—should be joyous, a pleasure for both man and woman. Something to be treasured for itself. Too many men, Terence said, did what they described as their duty with their wives, then went out and enjoyed themselves with their mistresses. Not the way to conduct a marriage, he’d told her. Emphatically.
She had not expected Rodney to be one of those men. But it would seem he was. Sometimes, lately, it almost seemed as if being with her was a chore he must get over with all expediency before retiring to his room for brandy and a cigar. Last night . . . last night he’d come close to failure. His hands shook when he showed her how to encourage his manhood to the proper stiffness. At the time she had not wondered why. Obviously, he was embarrassed, angry. But now, in the gray light of an early December day, she tried to understand what had happened. What made a strong young man tremble? Sadly, she rejected passion. Frustration? Perhaps. But the emotion she’d sensed was powerful, all-consuming. Dark. Holding it back took all his strength, sapped
his desire, causing his hands to shake, his rod to wilt.
A sharp pain grabbed her by the throat, lancing through her as if she’d swallowed acid. Raw. Biting. She could scarcely breathe. She could almost taste the pain.
It was fear, she decided. Fear that what lay hidden inside her husband’s handsome façade was violence. Had his hands trembled last night because he was restraining himself from taking out his darker desires on her?
Surely not.
Her pain intensified, stabbing down toward her stomach, into her womb, as another ugly thought began to take shape. Her husband wanted a child . . . but was not enjoying the getting of it.
They’d been married six weeks. If Rodney was already bored and unhappy, what horrors did the future hold?
Visions of the colorful and joyous couplings in Uncle Bertie’s book flashed through her head. Staggering slightly, Beth retrieved the heavy volume from the shelf and settled back into the seat before the fire. Slowly, determinedly, she began to study the sensuous illustrations of the many ways of love. She tried to picture the exquisite pleasure of sharing such exotic adventures with the right man.
With Terence.
Gradually, her pain subsided. She was left only with sorrow.
Bellerive, Louisiana, December 1816
Accustomed to a maze of small fields enclosed by stone fences or hedgerows, Terence could only stand at the ship’s rail and stare as the sturdy barge struggled upriver. Mud flats, backed by forests, stretched as far as the eye could see, occasionally broken above the flood plain by equally vast stretches of arable land. Glimpses of the great plantations of the south unfolded before him. Docks, graceful homes, sprawling outbuildings. He was too much the son of the man who had fostered him not to scent the possibility of immense wealth. And adventure. Land, so much land. At that moment, he felt the urge to buy the whole damn territory. And what he was seeing was only a tiny portion of the whole. Hard-headed and practical he might be, but his soul soared with the possibilities. He had not yet seen Bellerive, but already he knew that, barring something seriously wrong, he would add it to the Brockman Empire. As well as anything else he could get his hands on. Tobias had given him carte blanche. He would use it.
Somewhere deep down Terence felt the click, the moment when he returned from moon-struck haunted lover to being Terence O’Rourke, Merchant Prince. The arrogant, pragmatic son of a bitch who had helped Tobias Brockman become obscenely wealthy, and who intended to make him even more so. Himself as well.
He was pledged to remain ’til spring. A remarkable amount could be accomplished in three or four months. And Terence O’Rourke was the man to do it. If Bellerive would not do, he’d find another plantation, perhaps cotton or rice instead of sugar cane.
Plantations need vast amounts of labor, sneered his inner voice. Slaves, O’Rourke. Slaves. You know what you think about that.
Land, O’Rourke. Land. And there was no doubt what he thought about that. He’d never, even remotely, considered himself a farmer, but blood would tell. He saw the land, he coveted it. Not just for the wealth it could bring, but for itself. The sheer joy of having a piece of earth he could call his own.
Even if he went back—when he went back—he would know he owned a farm a hundred or more times the size of the O’Rourke acreage in Ireland, land ample enough to swallow the holdings of the Ardmores as well. He wouldn’t poach on Tobias’s plans, of course. Bellerive was sacrosanct. But there had to be a bit of Louisiana he could call his own. With unlimited funds at his back and enough money to cover several plantations in his personal account in London, he could do whatever he damn well pleased.
A scrambling around him brought Terence’s dreams to a swift halt. Sails clanked down, the barge lost way, was poled into place at a long wooden dock where a well-worn wagon was waiting. When his baggage had been loaded on top of the many items the river barge had brought for the plantation, Terence climbed up beside the driver. In the distance, nestled behind a scattering of trees, he caught a glimpse of a great white house. As they approached, the mansion took shape. Eight two-story white columns, fronting galleries on each floor which seemed to wrap-around to the sides of the wooden structure. Though small compared to the great country houses of England, it was the largest residence he had seen since landing in New Orleans.
Still closer, and he could see the many tall windows and glass doors shaded by the broad galleries. A dormered third-story crowned it all. Bellerive was . . . exotic. He’d seen wooden structures in New Orleans, but a great house of wood? He wondered if the Americans had any idea how fortunate they were to have so many trees, seemingly so little fear of fire?
No time for speculation. A tall Negro man strode down the steps with immense dignity, two equally dark young men walking behind. Terence didn’t know what the Americans called their servants—slaves?—but he recognized a butler and footmen when he saw them. Pointing out his luggage to the two young men, he offered his name and a dignified smile to the butler, then followed the elderly black man into the house.
He had questioned the attorney in New Orleans about the propriety of his staying in a house with an unmarried young woman of good family. As his personal wealth had burgeoned, Terence had learned to be very wary of young ladies. The Dessaint’s man of business had assured him that Rochelle Dessaint was properly chaperoned by the widowed sister of her mother, a Marguerite DuBois. Since Terence had to visit the plantation and there was no place else he could stay, he accepted that he had no choice. Americans were obviously freer in their ways than the English, mostly due to necessity. Vast distances between points of civilization required different rules of conduct.
One look at Rochelle Dessaint, however, and he knew he’d spent too much time dreaming of lost love and the glory of this vast new land. Rochelle Dessaint required preparation. A man needed to have his defenses firmly in place, his eyes fixed in his head, his heart cloaked in armor, his private parts encased in something stronger than knit unmentionables. Put side by side with Beth Brockman, the Louisiana belle would have topped her by at least six inches. Mademoiselle Dessaint’s hair shown with the same raven black glow as his own. Eyes as azure green as the Gulf of Mexico glowed from skin so white it looked as if she never saw the sun. Her lips, full and pouty, were the red of sin. Obviously enhanced. Her decolletage, in mid-afternoon, was as daring as the girls at Hetty Jamison’s, her dress not more than six months past the latest style from Paris. A virgin? He sincerely doubted it. At nineteen, she exuded sex like a drug. Like one of those meat-eating plants that sent out a scent-filled call to lure unwary bugs into their trap.
Terence gawked, knew he was gawking, and continued to do so. He didn’t even see Marguerite DuBois sitting quietly on the sofa behind the young owner of Bellerive plantation. He was in as neat a snare as it was possible to contrive. Damn you, Tobias! How did you know?
Beth! He pictured his darling girl, all in white, struggling on foot across the windswept granite of Dartmoor, the fog rolling in, obscuring precipitous cliffs, evil green bogs, her slight form turning misty, fading into silver gray nothingness.
Gone.
Beth!
Rochelle Dessaint inclined her head, graciously. She did not offer her hand. “Mr. O’Rourke. Welcome to Bellerive.”
Chapter 15
Dartmoor, December 1816
On the edge of the down above the Refuge, Rodney sat his bay gelding, contemplating his acres. Sheep, interested only in finding a succulent morsel among the stiff winter grass, wandered slowly around him. His down, his sheep. And the view out over the narrow valley below never failed to please him as well. His fields, his house, his gardens, his servants. His wife.
Beyond the house, beyond the brush shrouding the river, the land climbed again to more downs, then ever upward toward the distant dark shadow of Great Kneeset, the highest, most dangerous part of Dartmoor. Also out there, in villages, on farms, in manor houses blessedly smaller than his own, were his neighbors. That was the problem with the country. Neigh
bors. People who wouldn’t rate his coolest nod in the city expected to be greeted like long-lost friends in the country. Stiff-rumped and proud, the people of Dartmoor.
Rodney scowled. After less than three weeks at the Refuge, Beth had dragged him to church. He’d tried to tell her he didn’t go to church except in London, where he would have been ostracized by society if he had not. His bride had dug in her heels and insisted. “We must meet the neighbors, show we intend to participate in village life. And, besides,” she’d added for good measure, “Christmas is almost upon us.”
“I don’t give a bloody damn about the neighbors,” he’d growled. In response, his wife had ordered the carriage put to. If she weren’t such an imperious princess . . . If she could just be amenable—a quiet mouse who was content to plan menus, oversee the smooth running of the house, and warm his bed. If she were the kind to say nothing if he went off to Exeter “on business.” Or claimed a night out to indulge in a game of cards at the neighbors.
Neighbors. A perfect excuse. Perhaps church wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Heads turned, eyes went wide as the Viscount and Lady Monterne glided down the aisle to the family pew at the front. It had been unoccupied since the few times Rodney’s mother had managed to get his father onto the needlepoint kneelers close under the ornately carved pulpit from which the vicar delivered his sermon.
As they exited the church after the service, Rodney made the introductions. After all, it wasn’t as if he didn’t know the vicar. “My dear, may I introduce the Reverend Gerald Renfrew, a cousin. I believe we share a double-great grandfather, do we not?”
“Quite so, my lord,” the young man said with an easy smile. “Lord Ravenshaw was kind enough to grant me this living some five years ago,” he said to Beth. “I hope you will find Dunscombe and Dartmoor as fine a place as I do.”
“I’m sure I will. I already find it fascinating.”
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