by Matilda Hart
Despite this, as I sat in the church I saw nothing that moved me in the Clayton’s features, in his height. He seemed distant and stern, his previous behaviour mocking and rude. He was diminished in some way, pleasing to behold, but without attraction. In fact it was hard to even recall the infatuation I had with him, or to compare the desire I felt then with the overwhelming love in body and spirit that I have for Evan.
As the waltz comes to an end, Evan and I find somewhere to sit at the edge of the hall. The younger daughters of the Atwater’s: sixteen and fourteen, stand by in their dresses, thrilled to be at a dance for the first time.
I watch all the women in their gowns, the men in their best suits. And all the quiet and hidden nooks and crannies where a discrete couple might slip away to make love.
Evans younger brothers wear kilts much to the amusement of the young ladies. I remember what it was like to be sixteen, and thrilled by all that society, all those balls, the possibility of meeting ones love, a Childe Harold or a Don Juan. Everything still up in the air, a beautiful array of possibles. And then came both the disillusionment and the fulfilment. The impossible – and on reflection somewhat baffling – choice of Lord Atwater, and the discovery of Evan’s love for me and my love for him.
‘They look prettier than you in their dresses,’ Evan says to me and for a moment I am livid until I realise he is talking about his brother’s kilts.
‘And they cut twice the dash that you do,’ I say gesturing to Clayton’s sisters, whose names I have been told twice and forgotten already.
‘They look poor riders,’ he says. ‘Perhaps I should arrange to rescue them from a bolting horse.’ His face changes colour as he catches his mistake. Not the joke about the girls, but poor Galahad.
He needn’t worry, my love of Galahad has passed. Perhaps it was just a childish fancy. Young girls love their kittens and dogs, they teach them about growing up and eventually about death. Galahad it seems taught me a great deal more, and I feel that putting aside my childish pursuits feels right. ‘Don’t look so frightened,’ I say. ‘I’ve given up on riding, now that I have a rider of my own.’ He starts and he spins his head to make sure no one heard me.
‘Watch your tongue, young lady. It would cost me nothing in effort to put you across my knee.’
‘Would you really?’ I ask. ‘Well, I shall look forward to that, Lord MacAmbrais.’
He takes my left hand and I feel his fingers curl around mine. Holding tight onto the hand that one day he will bind with a wedding band. One day soon perhaps.
Yes, one day soon. There is a time limit after all: my bump will begin to show soon.
I won’t be the first in my family to be rushed into a marriage because of an indiscretion, and if our child are anything like their mother I dread to think of the trouble they’ll cause me.
But, for now – for perhaps the first time since I was very young and summers lasted an eternity – I feel utterly content, and everyone’s happiness – even Claire’s – has become my own.
THE END
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A Marquess and his Birde
Introduction
Aileen Connell has always been the belle of every ball. Beautiful and wealthy, she is the charming daughter of a duke, an accomplished flirt with a rather shocking reputation. A reputation that infuriates her father so much he puts a stop to it by arranging her betrothal to his friend’s eldest son, Manuel Foster, the future Marquess of West Yorkshire.
Confident in her ability to bring her new fiancé to heel with her dazzling beauty and storied wiles, Aileen obeys her father and travels to the Foster’s manor house. She is shocked to discover that her betrothed is blind. Bound to marry him, Aileen wonders what charms could she have, what power could she hold over a man who could not see her. She speaks her vows, hopeless at the prospect of a dull, loveless marriage, a husband to whom she can offer nothing.
As Aileen comes to know Manuel, she finds not only that he is a clever man of substance, but, shockingly, he finds her clever and bewitching. Once the most scandalous debutante in the finest ballrooms, Aileen is baffled that he is attracted to her mind and her personality. Manuel’s intensity, his insistence that he finds her opinions fascinating propel her to seek the life she knew, the life she thrived on for so long. She throws a party, a bacchanal really, ostensibly to celebrate their marriage. While he retreats from the riotous festivities, Aileen is in her element, surrounded by a clutch of admirers as champagne flows freely.
Will her reentry to society be fitting a future Marchioness—or an adulteress fleeing her arranged marriage?
Chapter 1
Aileen Connell was beautiful. She had no need of looking in the pier glass to see if it were true. Since the days when her sadly mussed ribbons drooped down the front of her grass-stained pinafores, she had known her worth. Anytime her father, the Duke of Kilmartin, had visitors, the guests would rave about her tawny curls, her eyes as green as the emerald hills surrounding the family stronghold. He did not entertain often, as Kilmartin Castle had no chatelaine since his wife’s death in childbed. Aileen was his only surviving offspring and was as indulged as the sole daughter of a lonesome, wealthy parent.
She was called exquisite by everyone who beheld her. That creamy complexion, the waves of silken hair that had darkened to a pleasing auburn, those mysterious green eyes. She had a small waist and the generous hips and breasts that might go in and out of fashion but never truly went out of favor. She had a stunning face, a delicious figure. More than one drawing master was dismissed for applying to the duke for permission to paint his daughter.
After the first three fell madly in love with Aileen and were dismissed, the fourth music master was allowed to stay, but only because he was so infirm as to be uninterested in anything the castle had to offer beyond a hot brick for his feet. It was for this reason that she learned the piano.
Soon she no longer found it inconvenient that these unfortunate swains fell under her spell so readily. It became a source of interest to her, a hobby of sorts. True, she could work silks into an intricate peacock design to cover a fireplace screen, but flirtation and intrigue were infinitely more enjoyable.
It dawned on her that her looks had a power, and she could use that power to make people do her bidding willingly. If she mentioned one evening that she longed for new sheet music, a present would come. Some devoted guest, having heard the lament, would dispatch an order and within a week or two she would receive a packet of music that was in fashion in Dublin. It seemed she had only to mention at thing lightly, not demanding or pouting, merely to remark upon it, and it was given to her freely and gladly.
Left often to herself, she had, by the age of seventeen, read far more of the books in the Duke of Kilmartin’s library than he had.
She had begun to form a number of rather inconvenient opinions—largely due to a book of German philosophy--that made her budding career as a coquette problematic. For example, as much as she liked getting presents, she had pored over some of Immanuel Kant’s writings and felt uncomfortably like she was using people as a means rather than an end.
Aileen kept her philosophy to herself and used curling tongs to create adorable ri
nglets at her temples. Her father decided on a season in Dublin for her. A second cousin who had been living in genteel poverty in an unfashionable district of Dublin was engaged to serve as Aileen’s companion for the Season and that good woman was brought to the castle. Aileen, suspecting the poor state of Maeve’s wardrobe, commissioned dresses for her and a beautiful plum-colored cloak with a black satin lining as a present.
Her come-out at Kilmartin was all that was fitting for the daughter of a duke. She wore her mother’s diamonds and descended the grand staircase. She tasted champagne and danced with callow youths of little rank and elderly men of the peerage. She loved being the center of attention but wished there were someone worthy of her charms.
That night, she met a marquess whose conversation was most clever, a man who danced with her twice and to her seriously, without the empty-headed patter usually reserved for beautiful girls. She flatly asked Maeve that night if the marquess were married.
“He’s sixty years old if he’s a day!” Maeve said.
“I know. But he already has a son, so I wouldn’t have to produce an heir and he was most amusing. He wouldn’t last many years and then I could be an independent dowager marchioness. I think I should like that greatly! I could travel the Continent and attend all sorts of parties…”
“He has a wife. He is also one of the duke’s dearest friends.”
“Why wasn’t his wife here?” Aileen demanded.
“I must assume you jest, my lady. Surely you have no designs on a married old man! His wife is an invalid of many years.”
“If he’s Father’s dearest friend, why don’t I know him? I have dined frequently with Lord and Lady Markby and with Sir Bartlett.”
“The marquess keeps mostly to his estate out of devotion to his wife. He also has vast lands to manage. I trust you made no improper advances toward him?” Maeve said.
“Of course not. But I liked him, which is more than I can say for any of the others I danced with. There was really no point to this ball, as there was no one worth seeing. I hope Dublin has more to offer in the way of intrigues.”
Soon, Aileen found herself in Dublin, a city she had seldom visited. She adored the bustle, the crowds of people stopping to tip their hats, offer a curtsey or simple admire her. She made her first visit, paying her respects to the Dowager Countess of Winchester. The Dowager had been a schoolmate of Aileen’s mother’s and as such, Aileen wanted to pursue the acquaintance. Soon, at house on Mountjoy Square that her father had taken for the season, she received her first invitation to a ball.
Imagine my delight at receiving card from dear Annabel’s daughter, all grown now. Forgive the short notice, please join my party to attend the Lord Lieutenant’s first ball of the Social season tonight. I shall send a carriage to collect you at eight.
Susan, Dowager Countess of Winchester
Aileen was flooded with excitement and dread at once. That very night she would be introduced into Dublin society. She sent a reply accepting the dowager’s fond invitation and set to work preparing. Maeve bustled about, pressing ribbons and picking through Aileen’s jewelry case for the ideal ornaments.
Her auburn hair, brushed until it shown in the lamplight, was caught up ant the nape of her neck and draped over one ivory shoulder in a cascade of soft russet curls. Three tiny white tea roses were secured at the crown of her hair with pins. Her gown was simple, a soft white. It set off her creamy complexion, the dark green of her eyes. A puff of face powder on her nose to conceal her few freckles and soon she was adorned with her mother’s emerald necklace.
The opulent carriage took them to the castle where they joined the dowager and her nephew, a barrister called George. The ballroom was stunning, even to a girl raised at Kilmartin. Maeve had to nudge her twice to stop her craning her neck to examine the mural above them.
Scanning the fashionable crowd, Aileen’s eyes fell on a group of young gentlemen of the proper age and appearance of wealth. Beautifully tailored coats cut to flatter strong shoulders and narrow waists adorned these tall and handsome men. She hoped one—or more—of them would ask for a dance. At last one of them, the tallest one with the blackest hair, approached her.
Aileen had her fan ready and held it just in front of her lips, dropping her eyes to appear demure, all the while aware of her posture, the slope of her throat clad in those dark emeralds. The man bowed to her and introduced himself. A mere baronet, unfortunately. She accepted a dance, a turn about the terrace.
A frantic Maeve caught up to them in the shadows of the terrace, pleading with her mistress to return to the general party lest she be compromised. Aileen had been quite enjoying his effusive flattery, the kisses he had pressed upon her. She found that she liked being made love to by impetuous young men who admired her face and dowry. She let Maeve coax her back to the ball where she accepted a glass of ratafia from a sandy-haired military officer. Her color and spirits high, she took to the dance floor with the sandy-haired chap, then accepted the hand of a slightly older dark-haired man who had a serious look about him. It wasn’t difficult at all to captivate male interest, she decided.
Soon she was sleeping till noon, her evenings a flurry of card parties and dances as the invitations flooded in. Sponsored by the dowager, she moved in the best circles. Aileen left off the modest fichus and powdered her décolleté, wore a rope of emeralds in her hair, flirted outrageously. Women and men alike adored her vivacious personality. She was the toast of Dublin and every society matron wanted Aileen on her guest list.
Until the incident of Lord Crimton. He had danced with her at a small party, a man of forty enjoying the distinction of notice by a dazzling young woman. He told her about his holdings in England and the West Indies. She laughed at his jests and swatted at his arm playfully with her fan. Two nights later, at the Lord Lieutenant’s ball, Lord Crimton made an unmitigated ass of himself by kneeling before her at the end of a dance and offering her a diamond necklace and his hand in marriage.
Lord Crimton had been married these twelve years to his wife, the mother of his three children. Whom he had just thrown off in an impetuous bid for the favor of a nine-days wonder debutante. And instead of being appalled and stalking away in humiliation and disgrace, Aileen had stood and laughed at him heartily.
She had taken his arm when he stood and walked out to the terrace with him, telling him what a fool he was in the fondest, most amused terms. The entire company was aghast at his behavior and her reception of it. She hadn’t swooned, which would have been the most appropriate reply. She hadn’t wept and run from the room. She had laughed like a jezebel, as if proud that she had the regard of a married peer of the realm!
The dowager spoke to Aileen privately the next morning, closeting in her private sitting room and taking coffee together.
“If you will not quit Dublin, then be apologetic and quiet, and sit by the walls with the spinsters and widows and decline every offer,” the dowager said.
“I thank you for your counsel, but I think it’s a bit old-fashioned. Surely Dublin society doesn’t think I’m a husband-stealer,” she said.
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, dear. You just made quite a name for yourself. It isn’t a very nice name either. They’ve dubbed you the Succubus.”
“I suppose the fact that all those prim matrons think I have the powers of a demon could be considered a compliment…it’s nonsense. I did nothing to seduce that silly man and I don’t see how I could be blamed for his stupid stunt with the necklace. I didn’t even accept the necklace!”
“You need to go to London. I’m going to write to your father the duke today. The only way you can escape the disgrace you’ve brought upon yourself, as well as that odious nickname, is to retrench in another venue. Since you refuse to behave in Dublin, perhaps putting a sea between yourself and your shame will do you good.”
Dearest Father, she wrote, Society in Dublin is dreary, only think of the fine gardens and museums full of paintings in London! The dear Dowager Duchess o
f Winchester recommends that I try the Season there. I will travel as soon as arrangements may be made and forward you an address where you may write me. Your affectionate daughter, Aileen.
Word of Aileen’s arrival in the city traveled quickly and she had not many mornings to squander in looking at paintings or gardens before invitations began to pour in. First it was a dinner party and musicale at Lady Ashforth’s, then an afternoon salon of artists and poets with the Dearings’. She found in the post that the Dowager, for all her disapproval, had wrangled Aileen a voucher to Almack’s.
Her first dress ball at Almack’s was a rousing success. She knew the Ashforths and Dearings, so those ladies introduced her properly, making her able to accept invitations to dance from young men.
Aileen danced every dance, favoring only two gentlemen with a second dance because there was such a surfeit of attractive prospects. Prospects for flirtation, for intrigue, even for a tryst. Not for marriage. Aileen’s mind had been made up on that score when she saw Lord Crimton humiliate his wife in that contemptible manner. No man would be allowed to do as much to her because she would have an exciting life of romance and travel and shift from amour to amour without the complications of marriage and children.
One suitor brought her lemonade. Another brought her tea. In the supper room, two potential partners stood toe-to-toe and argued about which had the prior claim to sit with her while she ate her thinly sliced bread with butter. A few weeks into her London residency, her succubus nickname invaded the ton. When she entered the Dearings’ smart private ball in a new gown of softest tangerine-hued silk and the hush that swept the crowd was more than the usual admiration for her face and figure. It was the jealous breath of fresh scandal.
