The Caress of a Commander

by Linda Rae Sande

  “He showed up at the cottage where we’ve been living these past seven years, acting as if the intervening years hadn’t even happened,” Barbara said, her voice taking on the mixed notes of anger and sadness.

  Hannah sighed.“Probably because he has left that other life behind and wants to resume the one he would have had with you,” Hannah commented, her voice gentle. “Do you... hate him for having left London when he did? For leaving you with child? Without protection? Truth be told, I thought perhaps you two had secretly wed before he took his leave of London.”

  Barbara angled her head to one side. She had felt many emotions since that night she had spent with Will Slater. The night before he reported to his first assignment as a naval officer. The night she had appeared at the back door of his bachelor quarters, ready to give her virtue to him, ready to accept whatever he had to offer in the way of soft words and promises for their future.

  She had loved him that night.

  Allowed his kisses and soft caresses. Encouraged him to take her to his bed to make slow, passionate love to her. Held him atop her body when the last vestiges of his pleasure had subsided and he was left boneless and breathless and murmuring quiet words of affection.

  Told him she loved him.

  After a time, Will had held her tucked against his body as he whispered what their future would hold—a wedding, a trip to Northumberland, a house near the park, shopping, balls and soirées—a future that could never happen given his intent to leave her and London for years of service to the British Navy.

  Later, as the time approached for him to take his leave of her and head to the docks, they had engaged in a hurried, frantic coupling that seemed to generate the heat required to brand one another. “Wait for me,” he had said just before his body spasmed and his seed spilled into her.

  She had felt that warmth fill her insides, his caress sending shivers of pleasure dancing through her body and all over her skin.

  A sensation she hadn’t felt since that night.

  In the intervening years, she had cursed him, cried over him, cursed herself, thanked him, hated herself, despised him, pitied herself, mourned for him, and tried to forget him.

  But never had she hated him.

  “I do not hate him,” Barbara finally whispered with a shake of her head. “But neither do I love him. I don’t think I can allow myself the luxury.”

  Hannah inhaled sharply, the quiet words far more potent than if Barbara had shouted them out loud. “Why ever not?” she asked in surprise. One look at how her brother regarded Barbara and she knew he felt affection for the woman. “I ask only because...” Because I wish to see my brother with the mother of his son. Because I have always wanted a sister. Because I think he loves you. “Because I did not love Henry when I married him,” she finally admitted when she noticed Barbara’s look of surprise. “I do now, of course. I couldn’t help myself,” she added with a wink and a wan smile. “And now I know husbands can love their wives. Henry loves me. Tells me so every day.”

  “Mum!”

  Donald’s shout had the two women turning their attention to the young boy as he ran in their direction, his steps darting around the greenery as he mostly followed the garden path. Harold bounded behind, his tail wagging as gobs of slobber followed in his wake.

  “Here,” Barbara called out, rising a bit from the garden bench so the small boy could see her from his vantage point. “So much for thinking he might take a long nap,” she said in a lowered voice, so only Hannah could hear her.

  Hannah stood up, as well, smiling as Harold hurried to her side. He turned his body and took a seat, leaning against the stone bench as if he needed it to support his large body.

  The boy paused when he caught sight of Hannah, his manner suddenly more reserved. He gave her a bow. “Pardon me, my lady,” he managed to get out between gasps for air.

  “Of course, Master Donald,” Hannah said as she afforded him a curtsy. “What news do you bring?”

  The boy beamed and seemed to blush a bit before he turned his attention to his mother. “Lord Gisborn and Father said they would take me fishing tomorrow afternoon, if it’s agreeable with you. Is it, Mum? Can I please go?”

  Barbara exchanged a quick glance with Hannah, surprised not only at her son’s reference to Will as ‘father’, but also at the implication that they would still be in residence at Gisborn Hall on the morrow. In the afternoon. “We’ll see,” she finally said before turning to Hannah. “We just came here on a walk, I thought. We certainly didn’t intend to spend the night. I didn’t bring any other clothes...” Not that she had any, she realized, remembering her only other gown was beyond repair.

  “Oh, I can loan you some,” Hannah interrupted with a wave of her hand. “Give you some, in fact,” she added with a roll of her eyes. At Barbara’s quick shake of her head, Hannah added, “I can no longer wear some of my gowns as they are too small.” A hand went to her belly to smooth out her skirts so that her pregnancy was more evident. “I never returned to my former size after Randolph was born, you see,” she explained in a voice meant only for Barbara to hear. She turned her attention to Donald and added, “I know there are plenty of short pants and a nightshirt in Master Nathan’s bedchamber that Master Donald can wear.”

  Barbara angled her head, obviously tempted by the offer of a different gown than the threadbare one she wore. “We’ll see,” she said again with a sad sigh, wondering what Will had in mind.

  Hannah merely nodded, deciding her brother would have to do some courting—a great deal of courting, actually—to convince Barbara to marry him, for it was apparent the woman hadn’t any intention of allowing Will Slater back into her life.

  But for the life of her, Hannah couldn’t understand why not. Perhaps a few more hours in Barbara’s company and she could discover the reason for the woman’s hesitance, she considered.

  A few hours without the men.

  A few hours of shopping.

  That would do the trick, she realized.

  Chapter 35

  A Niece Confides in an Aunt

  Back in London...

  Mildred Regan watched her niece as she picked at her late breakfast of coddled eggs and dry toast. For some reason, Victoria was using her left hand to hold her fork, favoring her right hand as if she had somehow injured it. “Happy birthday,” she said before helping herself to a rasher of bacon. The cook had been especially busy that morning, she realized, when she noticed the number of courses available on the table. Perhaps the woman was aware of the special occasion. “Three-and-twenty now, aren’t you?”

  Victoria looked up from her plate and rolled her eyes. “I’d forgotten,” she replied, a frown furrowing her eyebrows. Not having had a formal come-out nor spent any other years in London for a Season, she felt old compared to the other unmarried chits she had seen at Lord Weatherstone’s ball earlier that week. Their white gowns gave them away if their immature behavior didn’t.

  “You needn’t look so forlorn about it,” Mildred replied, the sound of a scold apparent in her voice. “Did you enjoy the theatre the other night? I saw you were dropped off from a rather splendid coach.”

  When Victoria straightened at hearing this bit of news, Mildred gave a shrug. “I couldn’t sleep until I knew you were home safe,” she said. “Whose coach brought you home?”

  Victoria allowed a wan smile. “The Marquess of Devonville’s. His son invited me to share their box,” she added with an arched eyebrow. “So elegant. The marchioness is a very nice lady. She offered the ride.”

  Mildred blinked and angled her head. “However did you manage the invitation?” she wondered, a bit suspicious. Her niece had been in London less than a week but had managed to attend one of the best balls of the Season and the theatre the following evening. “I do apologize for not joining you. I just... I could not fathom the thought of being in a crowd of thousands,” she said with a shake of her head.

  Victoria sighed. “Someone I met at the Weatherstone ball
saw me and... saved me, I suppose you could say,” she murmured. She was saved from having to say more when there was a knock at the front door.

  “Oh, my, it’s time for callers, isn’t it?” Mildred said as she excused herself from the breakfast parlor and made her way toward the small townhouse’s front parlor. The housekeeper met her before she made it into the room, however.

  “This came for Miss Comber,” the housekeeper said, handing a bright white folded vellum to her mistress. “A footman delivered it,” she added, one eyebrow arching up.

  Mildred regarded the feminine script decorating the front of the missive, at once wondering who might have sent it. The red wax on the back was embossed with a seal she couldn’t quite make out, but she was quite sure it wasn’t a simple initial.

  “Vicky!” she called out, hurrying back to the breakfast parlor.

  “Who called?” Victoria wondered when she looked up from her breakfast.

  “A footman just delivered this.” She held out the note to her niece and moved around the table to stand next to her, determined to read the note at the same time as Victoria.

  Slipping a finger beneath the seal, Victoria unfolded the four corners and immediately noticed the word ‘Torrington’ in the middle of the page. “It’s an invitation to Lady Torrington’s musicale tonight. For me and a guest,” she added with a hint of awe in her voice. She gave her aunt a pointed look. “Eight o’ clock. Are we going?”

  Mildred Regan gave her niece a look of shock before nodding her head. “Of course we are going,” she said with a nod, her heart racing with the prospect of attending the Season’s most talked about musicale.

  Before her aunt could ask her why it was Lady Torrington would extend an invitation to her, Victoria had her aunt’s copy of Debrett’s Peerage and Barontage out of the bookcase and open on the table, her left fingers causing the pages to flip until they reached the spread about the Earl of Torrington. When none of the names there seemed to make sense, she looked up the Devonville line, her brows furrowing until she saw the name ‘Adele Slater Worthington’ listed as a sister to the current marquess. Studying the invitation again, she realized the hostess, Adele Slater Grandby, Lady Torrington, had to be the same woman.

  Stephen’s aunt.

  The day after the Weatherstone’s ball, when she had the book out and had been trying to determine the identity of Stephen Slater, she had no idea to whose family he belonged, so she had no luck finding him in the book. Now she flipped back to the Devonville pages in an attempt to find the man listed as a son of William Slater. The only male name listed as an heir, though, was William III. Try as she might, she could find no listing for a Stephen Slater.

  And yet Stephen had referred to the Marquess of Devonville as his father—even called the man ‘father’ when they were in the coach.

  Could he be the ‘William III’ that was listed?

  She studied the entire name, thinking perhaps ‘Stephen’ was one of his middle names, but she couldn’t find a ‘Stephen’ listed anywhere in the ancestry chart.

  “Who are you looking for?” Mildred wondered as she picked up the invitation and read it through.

  Dear Miss Comber, I write to request the honor of your and a guest’s presence at my musicale this evening at eight o’ clock in the evening at Worthington House in Park Lane. The favor of a reply is not expected given the short notice. I do hope you can attend as I look forward to meeting you. Sincerely yours, Adele Grandby, The Countess of Torrington.

  “I don’t know,” Victoria whispered before shaking her head. When she noticed her aunt’s expression, though, she sighed. “Stephen Slater,” she finally admitted. “He’s supposed to be William Slater’s son, but he’s not here. And I searched through the book yesterday and cannot find any other Slaters listed. Why is that?” she asked as she turned her attention back to her aunt.

  Mildred sighed, realizing immediately why a son wouldn’t be listed in Debrett’s, even if he was the son of a marquess. “Because he is a bastard,” she replied simply.

  Victoria jerked up her head to stare at her aunt.

  A bastard?

  The word hit her as if it had been a punch to her middle. Her heart in her throat, Victoria slumped against the back of her chair. Fighting tears, she excused herself and took her leave of the breakfast parlor, nearly running as she made her way up the stairs to her bedchamber.

  When Mildred found Victoria a few minutes later, she was in the window seat in her bedchamber, her face wet with tears, her breaths coming in staccato sobs. Mildred allowed a sigh. Taking a seat next to her niece, she gathered the girl into her arms and made a few shushing noises. “There, there,” she murmured. “Did he ruin you?”

  Victoria stilled herself, the words so unexpected she gasped. “No. Of course not,” she replied indignantly, rather shocked her aunt could have come to that conclusion. “How could you even think such a thing?”

  “But he kissed you.”

  It wasn’t a question, but Victoria could tell from the sound of Mildred’s voice that she rather hoped Victoria would deny it. She couldn’t, though. She didn’t want to. “Yes,” she admitted. “Right after I slapped him.”

  Her aunt furrowed her brows in an attempt to hide the sudden humor she felt. “I would have thought the slap should have come after the kiss,” she whispered.

  Victoria merely shook her head, a handkerchief finally pressed against her cheeks in an attempt to dry to her tears. “I don’t suppose it really matters,” she whispered.

  “Did he ever claim to be anyone other than who he said he was?” Mildred’s query was spoken in a soft voice, as if she were afraid she would anger her niece.

  Victoria allowed a sob before shaking her head. “No.”

  “How did he introduce himself?”

  Sighing, Victoria remembered that moment at the ball when she had just made it into the ballroom, when she had helped herself to a glass of champagne and was suddenly face to face with the dark blond-haired, hazel-eyed man who could have been a Greek god. “Stephen Slater,” she whispered, recalling how his smile came easily. How confident he seemed. She blinked, though, when she remembered more about that night. “I overheard others at the ball who claimed he was the Earl of Bellingham, though,” she whispered. “The son of the Marquess of Devonville.” This last was said with a firm nod, as if she’d been studying the book on the peerage.

  “If he did not introduce himself as such, then you cannot find fault with him for the assumptions of others,” Mildred countered carefully.

  Sniffling, Victoria nodded. “True. But I was seen in his company. When we were leaving the theatre—”

  “In the company of a marquess and his marchioness as well,” Mildred reminded her gently.

  “True,” Victoria agreed, sniffling again as she allowed a nod. The marchioness had been so accommodating, affording her conversation and a front row seat for the fourth and fifth acts of the play. As the second woman to marry the marquess, she probably wasn’t as offended by the presence of her husband’s bastard in their company, she supposed.

  Victoria and her aunt sat in companionable silence for a time before Mildred spoke. “I don’t know about you, but I would dearly love to attend Lady Torrington’s musicale this evening. Do you suppose—?”

  “Oh, of course we shall attend,” Victoria said with a nod, her tears having abated. “I have a gown in mind. And if I should see Mr. Slater, I shall simply act as if we are unacquainted,” she added, deciding it would be safer socially if she did not know the man.

  As for having kissed him, well, that was a mistake she had no intention of repeating. She wouldn’t be giving Stephen Slater another moment of consideration.

  The bastard!

  Chapter 36

  Musical Chairs at a Musicale

  Later, in Mayfair

  The short trip from Devonville House to Worthington House had Stephen wondering why his father and Cherice even bothered taking the town coach. He was quite sure they all could
have walked and made it there just as quickly.

  “Will there be a receiving line?” Stephen asked, a bit nervous at the prospect of meeting his aunt and her husband for apparently the first time. If he had met his aunt at a younger age, he couldn’t remember her.

  From everything he had heard of Milton Grandby, he had nothing to worry about. Will’s godfather was apparently a good man. But he knew nothing about Adele other than she offered the very best musicians and singers at her musicales and had at one time been married to a man involved in the early steamships.

  And she had apparently been a rather wealthy widow when she married Milton Grandby.

  “Not at all. These events are always a bit more casual,” Cherice replied with a hint of a smile. “Besides, Grandby wouldn’t put up with a receiving line. And there’s no need to be nervous about meeting Adele. She’ll love you.”

  William Slater allowed a snort. “That’s because she’ll think he’s Will,” the marquess said with a teasing grin. “One hundred pounds say she’ll call him ‘Bellingham’ when she spots him for the first time.”

  “Devonville!” Cherice scolded while Stephen merely allowed a grin.

  The town coach jerked to a halt just inside the curved drive in front of Worthington House. “Then perhaps I’ll introduce myself as him,” Stephen countered, his own grin belying his nervousness.