by Matilda Hart
As Aileen Connell passed through the crowd and greeted Lady Dearing, she heard the phrase repeated audibly. Succubus of the Emerald Isle. It was rather poetic, as insults went, and she turned toward the woman nearest her who had said it, gave her a dazzling smile and curtsied quite prettily. Aileen took this slander as reason enough to dance with every married peer who asked her. She let a married man kiss her hand, let another lead her in a quadrille. Aileen batted her eyes, aware of the generous curve of her hips in the new gown.
She strolled out to the conservatory on the arm of Lord Ashforth’s younger brother, a man who was. by all accounts, happily wed. When Gerard led her to a snug iron bench and seated himself beside her, when he took her hand and then pressed his lips to hers, she giggled. Not foolishly, like empty-headed girls will do, but with the thrill of being well kissed by a man who would never try to marry her. His hands roamed her silk gown rather freely on such a short acquaintance. Gasping and panting, his mouth moved to her neck. Just at that moment, his face buried in her throat, their hostess entered the conservatory.
“Oh, my! Aileen! I had no idea you were—I came to the conservatory to see if we needed to light more lamps—Good God, is that Lord Ashforth?
“No, my lady. It is only his brother,” Aileen said lightly.
“His married brother. His brother who is wed to my own sister, Diana. For shame, Gerard! Return to your wife this instant. I will deal with this---“
“Succubus? I’m hardly a demon, my dear. We were friends this morning. Let us not part ways over a silly ballroom intrigue. You know I’ve no more interest in troubling your sister’s marriage than I could fly,” Aileen said cheerfully, trying to link arms with her. Lady Dearing stepped away from her.
“I must ask you to leave and not return. Anyone who behaves so is not welcome in our home,” she said.
Her abundance of invitations slowed to a trickle in the coming days. She attended a single dinner party and the gentlemen present professed their regard for her integrity, and then tried to get her alone so they might test that easy virtue that was rumored. She found herself at parties in less fashionable streets, dances where the carpet was rolled up and two or three musicians played for dancing in a drawing room.
Soon, she had a letter from her father. She was bade to leave directly upon receipt of the letter and travel with all haste to the estate of the Marquess of West Yorkshire. It was to be her new home as he had brokered a marriage for her to the man’s son.
They keep to themselves a great deal and will not have heard the gossip. The future marquess, the only son, shall stand husband to you. The banns are being read as I write this letter, leaving only a fortnight before the ceremony. I shall come to give the bride away and toast the wedded couple. I shall come to make sure you marry him, Aileen. You have disgraced yourself and the name of an ancient, noble house. Make haste, child, for your conduct disgusts me and if you do not oblige me in this, I shall throw you off entirely. Not one shilling should you get from me and you would find yourself sorely used by these married men you seem to court. Your Father, the Duke of Kilmartin
She had no choice. She had to comply or else become impoverished, a woman always in search of a man to take care of her, striving to keep his attention. With a sigh, she told Maeve to pack their bags. They were going to West Yorkshire on the coach.
Chapter 2
After the green, lush hills around Kilmartin and the bright bustle of London, West Yorkshire seemed dull, all scrub and purple heather and isolation. The manor house was broad and imposing, its timbered walls sturdy but weathered. This, she knew, was the home of that marquess she had liked, the one with the invalid wife. Now she was there to wed his son, whom she had never met.
She could see no alternative to the marriage, unless the young man decided against her—and knowing her attractiveness and charm, it seemed impossible. She knew she could persuade him with her subtle hints, with her smile or pout, to do her bidding. She had, after all, beautiful green eyes and a promising swell of décolleté. She had yet to meet the man who could resist either for very long.
Aileen felt a bit nervous as she entered the private sitting room of her betrothed. Only the light from a single long window, its opulent velvet drapes thrown back, illuminated the room. He sat in a large armchair, almost like a throne, his back to the door. His profile was handsome, a strong jaw, a straight nose. When she neared him, he did not turn toward her, which puzzled her because she was accustomed to captivating every young man’s eye.
“My lady of Kilmartin, I presume,” he said, his voice deep and faintly amused, “the wild Irish rose I have heard so much about.”
“You have heard then,” she said flatly, “I take my leave then. I shall go inform my companion and my maid not to unpack my trunk. We can leave by coach in the morning, I believe.”
“There is no need for that. It is a pleasure to meet you, Aileen, if I may call you that. We lead a somewhat retiring life in Yorkshire and you will no doubt add the flavor of excitement to our days.”
“Why must you lead a retiring life? A young man of means and education?” she challenged.
“Ah, a reasonable question. Just as you may not be a prize on the marriage market due to your reputation, neither am I the catch every mama wishes for her daughter. I am wealthy enough, as you say, and educated enough, as well. I am crippled. Does it shock you to know I cannot see your face?” he said.
Aileen barely stifled a gasp. It explained why he hadn’t looked at her. The man was blind. Her future husband was blind. What had she to offer him, then? An heir, she supposed grimly. For what else could he want with her, unable as he was to see her face and figure?
“Forgive me. I am Emanuel Foster, the only son of the Marquess of West Yorkshire. I am called Manuel in the family.”
“I’m pleased to meet you. The name puts me in mind of my favorite philosopher.”
“You cannot mean Immanuel Kant? A young lady such as yourself, with the reputation of a succubus, reads German philosophy?”
“Yes, my lord, though I do not advertise the fact overmuch,” she said.
“Will you sit beside me? There is a stool just there,” he gestured, “that you might draw up next to my chair and I might feel the shape of your face. I assure you, my valet—who is more than a valet but also a trusted friend, James—has told me in most certain terms that you are a lovely young lady to behold. I feel a bit cheated out of the opportunity to look at you.”
She felt curiously aware of him, as if the absence of sight made him somehow more physically present to her. She was aware of the way his sleeves were rolled up in the spring heat, the curling hairs on his forearm, the hands and wrists strong, not pale or languid. The thought of that hand caressing her face made her heart quicken. She touched his hand tentatively, then lifted it to her face. His fingertips traced her jawline, the curve of her cheek, the span of her brow and, as her eyes dropped shut, touched her eyelids gently, his sensitive fingers touching her dark eyelashes. His thumb lingered across her generous lips and she felt for an instant that she wished he would kiss her. Surely a man who could not see might still know his way round a woman’s body in the dark.
Her heartbeat seemed to quicken because of him and she felt disappointment when he withdrew his hand. She thought wildly for an instant to seize his hand, to press it to her throat, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts. Something about his inability to see her registered as incredibly erotic. She desired him. He was handsome and he did not seem bothered by her reputation and that easy acceptance was heady even without the thrill of his touch on her face.
“Your father will arrive five days hence. We have that long, if you wish to be released from this arrangement, knowing that I am blind. I am certain the two of us can contrive a reason to dissolve the betrothal,” he said gallantly, his fingertips still brushing her chin.
“No,” she breathed, “I haven’t any better alternative. I admit it is a shock that you are blind, but I can’t imagine t
hat you’re filled with delight by my reputation. We each of us must accept the other.”
“I can manage that if you can,” he said, “and I am inclined to think that, in this matter at least, James did not exaggerate. He said, and he would have my head for repeating it—that you looked like a princess.”
“Has he ever seen a princess? The Princess Charlotte I have seen in pictures and she has quite a big nose. But they say she quite loves Prince Leopold of the Belgians. It’s a romantic tale, even if she does have a face like a horse,” Aileen said.
“You speak more unguarded than most women,” he observed.
“Forgive me, my lord. I am too free with my tongue. I have been chastened for it since childhood and I never learnt to guard my speech. It is part and parcel to my disgrace, I expect. I don’t mind much, about your being blind,” she said.
“I don’t mind it much either. I find myself wishing I could see if there is truth in your looks when you say you don’t mind it.”
“There is truth in what I say. I will not lie to you. We can strike that much of a bargain, I think. I am, I suppose, to produce you an heir to the marquisate so the title will not fall to extinction.”
“And I to lend you my name and make you a marchioness, though you lose precedence from the title you bear of your father’s house. Though being my marchioness will keep you from utter ruination, I understand.”
“Do you imagine me the sort to be passed from man to man and finish in the gutter?”
“Not a bit of it. I fancy you to be a kingmaker—the sort of woman who would learn secrets and how to use them, who would make formidable allies and dangerous enemies and is more like to end with a knife to the back after crossing the wrong adversary,” he said, half in jest.
“I like that better than ruin, I reckon. In either version I die horribly, I suppose,” she said good-humoredly.
“Our marriage should prevent any tragic fate. The marquisate of West Yorkshire is a prosperous one and our tenants are extremely loyal. No one will dare say a word against you in our district.”
“You have great confidence in your neighbors, it seems. I never associated much with ours at Kilmartin. It’s a rural area, mostly tenant farmers and they weren’t invited to the castle.”
“Does your father do an annual celebration—harvest or Christmastime to open the castle to the villagers? Have a feast and a dance? We do ours at Michaelmas, and it’s brilliant fun.”
“No, Father was from home a great deal on business, of course. I had little society apart from my governesses, my old nurse. He spends time in London and on the Continent, looking after his interests there.”
“I see,” Manuel said, “you must have been lonesome.”
“I suppose, but I never looked forward to a wedding the way girls do in novels, never needed my fortune advanced by an advantageous marriage. All marriage meant for me was a man monitoring my amusements and controlling my dowry and quite probably making rules for my conduct.”
“Did your father make no rules for you?”
“None that he took the trouble to enforce. I have had comfort and now freedom since I was launched on the world at my coming out. I think Father spent more time in society in London and abroad and so didn’t bother to hold many events at Kilmartin. He has a few friends who come to dinner. I’m surprised I’ve never seen you there.”
“I am very little from home. It is only within my familiar world that I am comfortable moving about. As it is, James accompanies me as my guide outside the house itself. In time perhaps you may persuade me to join more social events by serving as my guide. I confess I like them but little. Crowds are disorienting for me, the noise and music are too chaotic. I prefer the quiet of my library or the gardens where I know what lies before me.”
“One might think you seventy years old to hear you speak so! I should think when we are married we might have a party to celebrate the occasion. There will have to be people there and I suppose we must allow them to speak and dance and eat things, as it is customary. I haven’t yet attended a silent party,” she teased.
“When you find one, I shall accompany you there gladly,” he said, “I will try to be more sociable if it pleases you, and in turn, I ask only that you tell me the truth, as you have promised to do, and that you leave off wearing so much rosewater. As a blind man, I like to know who is entering the room and if you continue to douse yourself thus, I will never be sure if it is my wife alone or a troop of French harlots,” he said, “as you see I can joke as well.”
“I’m glad of it. It would be a long and dull life with no humor to share,” she said, “I like you a deal better than I expected to.”
“I must get used to your bluntness.”
“Yes,” she said, “you must.”
Chapter 3
In due course, her father came to the manor. He greeted her coldly and only nodded his approval when she was joined by Manuel and introduced him as her betrothed. Her father was often closeted with the marquess, but he spent the remainder of his time lecturing Aileen on how she had soiled the family name and had a chance to redeem herself by mending her ways and making a good wife. She bore the lectures with more than the usual patience because she knew he would be leaving after the wedding. Even her indulgent but distant father seemed terribly dear now he would be far away. She found it hard to believe she was never to return to her old home at Kilmartin. Her father told her that she and her husband could visit there when they had a son to show him.
Aileen wore a net lace gown embroidered in gold, and the silver locket that had belonged to her mother. Her hand was cold and trembling when her father placed it in Manuel’s hand at the altar. She was chilled by the exacting expression on his face, as those sightless eyes seemed to look right through her. She spoke her vows, as indeed she had no choice. Afterward, the villagers came to wish them well outside the church. They brought flowers and good luck charms and the lot of them were given fruitcake and wine punch.
Aileen went to her chamber upon return to the manor. It was early evening but there was no ball planned, no wedding feast. Only her wedding night with a near stranger lay ahead. She asked Maeve to sit with her to calm her nerves, but Maeve’s suggestions that it was a woman’s lot in life to suffer and bear children were not soothing so Aileen decided to sit alone and await her husband. She wore a fine cambric night rail worked with delicate embroidery. She wondered why she bothered if Manuel couldn’t even see it. Still, she had liked the idea of his fingers tracing the fine stitchery and inquiring as to whether she had worked it herself, and her pride in saying that she had indeed stitched it.
When he came to her, his coat and cravat discarded, his shirt open at the collar, she felt her heart quicken. She rose from the blue chair when he entered but he gestured to her.
“You needn’t get up. I’m sure you make quite a pretty picture beside the fireplace. I know the placement of the furniture, you see, and without the din of conversation, I can hear the slightest movements. I heard the rustle of your mantle just now when you moved. I wonder if you would talk with me a while. If it wouldn’t’ disappoint you on such a night?” he said.
Aileen was both flattered that he was interested in talking with her—as he was the first man who’d ever much cared what she had to say—and saddened that he seemed less than eager to consummate their union. Still, he took the chair beside hers and asked her the story of her life. It took very little time to tell it, but his hands roamed her face and brow, her unpinned hair as she spoke. His touch left her breathless. His remarks on her life story—dull as it mostly was--were thoughtful, sometimes sharp and funny, sometimes surprisingly compassionate. He paid attention to what she said, which made her oddly self-conscious. What she said had never much mattered before.
If anything, his compassion and humor made her withdraw. Instead of moving toward warmth, as a flower will grow toward the sunlight, Aileen found herself shying away from him. She remarked coolly that she was exhausted after the days of prepara
tions and the ceremony and said rather boldly that she would see him at breakfast. He gave a wry chuckle and kissed her hand, bade her good night and withdrew.
She couldn’t afford to grow attached to this man, to let her emotions get the better of her. Otherwise she would be like Lady Crimton, at the mercy of her husband’s whims, suffering from his slights. She could surely be a marchioness, enjoy the privilege and wealth and go about in society with impunity due to her married state. She would be subject to less censure, she knew, and since her husband professed he did not enjoy society, she could go to parties alone and speak to whom she liked. It seemed like a good plan, but it felt brittle to her, hollow somehow.
She avoided him for days, exchanging pleasantries at breakfast, reading books from his library, walking in his gardens. She spent hours with the housekeeper learning the names and duties of the vast staff of servants, planning meals and attending to minor difficulties. She took to running the household with ease after doing so at Kilmartin, and was glad of the chance to be useful. When she sat in her morning room writing to the Dowager Duchess of Winchester, she heard his step in the hall and felt the sudden impulse to hide from him. Although he could not see, she found she dreaded and hoped for him to seek her out. She longed for his company, but feared her growing feelings. Uncertain of how to behave, she kept to her seat and tried to continue her letter. He passed by the door without entering and she sighed, with relief or disappointment.
A few nights later, near the witching hour, Manuel opened the communicating door between their chambers and entered, “Wife, will you walk in the garden with me? You have been such a stranger to me these past weeks.”
“The garden? It’s dark outside,” she said.
“It matters little to me if there is light, as you know. Put on your wrapper and come along. I have been a patient man, but I miss the companionship that a man wants of his wife,” he said with an easy smile. Her heart thudded, her palms felt damp. She fastened her dressing gown and stepped into her slippers. Excited, unsure, she followed him. With his ebony cane in one hand, he offered her his arm and she took it. She expected him to grope along the wall, the bannister, search for the door to the gardens, but he did not. He walked confidently, swiftly even, to the French windows that opened onto the terrace. From there, he led her down into the formal gardens.
