Velvet Chains (Historical Romance)

by Constance O'Banyon

  Looking up at the sky, Season noticed it was a bleak, overcast day. It looked as if snow might fall before the afternoon ended.

  "My lady," Tom, the stable boy, said, coming up beside her, "there be a coach drawing up in front of the main house. I think it's the Lord Ransford."

  At first Season thought Tom must be mistaken. Not even Lord Ransford would dare visit her while her father was away in London and she was unchaperoned. Peeping around the stable door, she saw it was, indeed, he. She felt fear, knowing there was no one to protect her from the earl. Lately he had become very bold in his advances toward her. How would he behave with her father away?

  "He is not alone," she said, observing the two other gentlemen who stepped from the coach.

  Season frowned, remembering the last time Lord Ransford had visited Chatsworth. On that occasion he had told her he couldn't wait to show off his young, innocent bride-to-be to his friends.

  Her eyes flashed with anger. How dare he come to her home when he knew very well that she would be alone and unchaperoned! Yet this act was so typical of him, she wondered why she was so shocked by his behavior. Did he think he could parade her before his friends as a fine catch? Season knew her father well enough to realize even he wouldn't be over pleased by Ransford's untimely visit. She hoped he would be furious at the man's audacity.

  Suddenly a devilish plan began to form in Season's mind. Knowing what a prideful man Ransford was, she knew he would want her to make the best impression on his friends. Unmindful of the far-reaching consequences of thwarting the earl, she decided this would be the perfect occasion to rid herself of the hateful man.

  "Tom, tell Simms to inform Lord Ransford and his friends that I am in the stable. Tell him not to inform Ransford that I know he is here. When you have delivered the message return to me, posthaste." Season smiled to herself, awed by her own daring.

  She watched Tom rush away to do her bidding, feeling a prickle of guilt. She intended to use the poor unsuspecting stable boy in her plan to be rid of Ransford. Tom's father was the innkeeper in the village, and for the last six months Tom had been helping out at the Chatsworth stables. Season wasn't sure of his age. Though he was tall and muscular, she judged him to be no more than sixteen.

  When Tom returned and told her he had delivered her message to Simms, the butler, Season almost changed her mind. Tom's blue eyes were sparkling so innocently she couldn't seem to bring herself to use him so shamelessly, and she was in the process of leaving the stables, when Lord Ransford's voice reached her ears.

  "Wait until you see my lady love. She is scarcely out of the schoolroom. She has lived in the country all her life and hasn't acquired the wicked ways so many London maidens have," Ransford bragged to his contemporaries.

  "I have heard it said that she is a real beauty and will bring with her a large dowry. You are indeed a fortunate man if the stories one hears about the Lady Season are true," one of the men speculated.

  "You are damned lucky, Ransford. Would that I were the one to take such a young innocent to the marriage bed." The lewd remark came from the third man.

  Season felt her face burn with indignation and embarrassment at hearing herself discussed in such a crude way. In that moment, the young girl knew she would have to go through with her plan. She could never marry a man who allowed his friends to make sport of her innocence. Glancing at Tom, she read the pity in his bright eyes, and setting her jaw stubbornly, Season mentally prepared herself to act a part.

  "Oh, she's innocent all right, I would never give my proud name to some flighty, promiscuous miss," Ransford declared.

  As the stable door was pushed open, Season sprung into action. She propelled herself against a startled Tom, knocking him off balance, and sending them both tumbling into a pile of fresh hay.

  "Forgive me, Tom," she whispered. "I am desperate-- please help me!"

  Poor Tom was just getting over the shock of the lady of the manor landing atop him when her sweet lips covered his. Raising her head, Season's green eyes held a beseeching glint in their misty depths.

  "Please, Tom, kiss me," she pleaded.

  Tom didn't stop to consider. He knew there would b« hell to pay over this day's incident, but he couldn't resist her plea. His arms slid about her slender waist and he rolled her beneath him, seeking her lips. He knew if it were not for the audience that would soon descend upon them, he would have felt that he had diet and gone to heaven at the taste of the beautiful Lad} Season's honeyed lips. He would have been willing to wager that nowhere in all England was there so fair a maiden. She was as far above him as the sun was from the earth.

  However, since everyone on Chats worth knew of the lady's trouble—being betrothed to the ancient earl- Tom realized immediately that she was playing a game and trying to free herself of the Earl of Ransford. At that moment, however, the stable boy would have died for her had she asked it of him.

  "Here, what's this?" Lord Ransford's enraged voice boomed out.

  Season braced herself for whatever was to come. She pretended to be shocked as she pushed Tom away and sat up, pulling a piece of hay from her tumbled curls.

  "My lord, I… had no notion you were coming. I did not expect to see you." She was surprised at how guilty her voice sounded. She hadn't known she could be such a convincing actress.

  Lord Ransford's face was red with anger and indignation. "You sly baggage," he choked. "I will never give my name to a harlot such as you!" He couldn't look his companions in the eye, knowing they were as shocked as he was. He had wanted Season as his bride. He would still have wed her, had it not been for the fact that she had shamed him before his good friends.

  "How long has this been going on behind my back?" he demanded to know.

  "Oh, my lord," Season said, standing up and nervously pressing a wrinkle out of her gown. "Please do not think I behave this way at all times. Besides Tom here, I have been with no more than six other men," she said, playing her part to the hilt. "I thought you might well appreciate having a wife with some experience." Delighted by her own daring, she could hardly contain the joy she felt at the stricken look on the old lord's face.

  "You, miss, are the most unscrupulous tart of them all. You haven't heard the last of this. Your actions today will not only reach your father's ears but also the ears of the king!" He turned his anger on the boy, Tom.

  "You, young man, will pay a high price for tossing this lady in the hay! I wish you a good day as well as goodbye. He turned abruptly and stalked out of the stable, followed closely by his two stunned friends.

  Season stood motionless for a moment. It had been too easy. She knew there would be reprisals from her father and realized she hadn't heard the end of today's deed; still, she smiled. No matter how angry her father would be when he heard about what had occurred, she felt her heart lighten. She was free of Lord Ransford!

  The Lady Season turned slowly to face her accomplice and smiled slightly. "Tom, I hope you do not believe I am promiscuous as did Lord Ransford. I doubt that you understand why I acted so brazenly."

  "But I do, my lady. We all on Chatsworth know that you ain't been happy." He grinned rakishly. "If you don't mind me saying so, and meaning no disrespect, my lady ... it was a real pleasure to help you out."

  Season couldn't help but laugh at his bold reply. "Be that as it may, Tom, I have brought trouble down upon your head. My father will not be well pleased when he finds out what happened here today. It would be well for you to be gone from here when he returns home."

  Tom ran his hand through his sandy-colored hair. "Well, my lady, I have this powerful itch to see Dublin. My father has long had his mind set on me visiting my aunt who lives there."

  Season nodded, wishing she had somewhere to hide from her father's wrath. As she walked out of the stable, she watched Lord Ransford's departing coach roll down the driveway. She knew he was on his way to London to see her father.

  Tom came up beside her, and they both watched the coach until it was out of sight.


  "I suppose after today my reputation will be ruined," Season observed softly. "It seems a high price to pay for one's freedom."

  "No one will hear about today from me, my lady," Tom stated loyally.

  Season smiled inwardly as her spirits began to soar. It didn't matter what trouble resulted from today's actions. Whatever happened, whatever price she would have to pay, being rid of Lord Ransford was worth it. She gazed at the winding tree-lined roadway, where only the dust created by Lord Ransford's departing coach remained as a grim reminder of his visit.

  A cold wind was blowing, and a light snow had begun to fall. Season lifted her face to the sky, feeling free and light-hearted at last. She wouldn't worry about the kind of punishment her father might choose to inflict on her. Nothing he could do to her would be as bad as being forced to marry Lord Ransford!

  4

  As it happened, Season had to wait in fear and uncertainty for a fortnight before her father finally came to Chatsworth. During that time, the castle was unusually quiet; even the servants seemed to be on edge and spoke only in whispers. No one mentioned the incident that had taken place in the stable except Season's personal servant, Molly. The maid had tended Season since birth, and she said things to Season that no one else would dare express. Molly had not hesitated to make known her views regarding Season's conduct with Tom, and she was sure the roof would cave in on them all when the master returned home.

  Season was out riding Cinibar when her father arrived. Upon her return, she saw her father's coach and six being unhitched by the new stable boy. She swallowed the lump in her throat and made her way to the house.

  Fear gnawed at her insides when Simms gave her a sympathetic smile.

  "Your father is waiting for you in the study, my lady. He asked to see you at once."

  As Season approached her father's study she had to force one foot in front of the other, and her hands were trembling when she reached the heavy, nail-studded oak door. Squaring her shoulders, she rapped lightly.

  "The door's open," her father's voice boomed out.

  Season took a deep breath and entered the room. Her father was seated at his desk, and his eyes pierced her with an angry glare. Her heart seemed to plummet as he drummed his fingertips on the surface of the desk.

  Lord Mason Chatsworth was a handsome man. His face was finely chiseled, and his body was still firm and hard. His hair was devoid of powder, but otherwise his appearance was immaculate, as always. His pale blue satin cutaway coat had pearl buttons down the front, and his matching knee breeches had white trim down the side seam. He stood up slowly and motioned Season into a chair, while his angry green eyes never once left her face.

  Season still clutched her silver-handled riding whip in her hand as she sat on the edge of a red velvet chair, watching her father's every move.

  "Hello, Papa," she said in a small voice. "I'm glad you are home."

  He walked the length of the room and back before he stopped in front of Season. "Are you, miss? Are you indeed glad to see me?" he asked in a strangled voice.

  Season lowered her head. "Yes, Papa. I am always glad to see you."

  "You know why I'm here?" he demanded, reaching out, gripping her chin, and raising her face so she was forced to meet his eyes.

  "Yes, Papa."

  "Lord, I must be cursed to have such a daughter. I am thankful that your mother isn't alive to witness the shame you have brought upon this family. However, I suppose I have no one to blame but myself; I trusted you to act in a manner which would befit your station in life. I should have been more strict instead of being so indulgent with you."

  Season blinked in astonishment. By no stretch of the imagination had her father ever indulged her. True, she had been given everything that money could buy, but she had never had the pleasure of her father's company save for a few short weeks in the summer. Never had she had his love or indulgence.

  "Do you have the slightest notion what you have done, miss?" he asked pointedly.

  She raised her chin proudly. "Yes, Papa, I know exactly."

  "I don't think you do. Allow me to enlighten you. Because of your disgraceful performance, Lord Ransford has withdrawn his marriage agreement, and who can blame him?"

  "I was sure he would," Season said in a voice hardly above a whisper. Her father seemed to loom over her, bigger than life, and she didn't know what punishment he had in mind for her.

  "That's not all. Ransford has spread the most ungentlemanly tales about you, miss!"

  "I'm sorry that you are angry with me, Papa, but I'm not sorry that Lord Ransford has canceled his marriage contract with me. I decided I just couldn't marry that awful man."

  Her father's eyebrows shot up. "It wasn't your decision to make, Season. You are too young to know what's good for you."

  "Papa, I tried to talk to you about Lord Ransford, but you wouldn't listen to me. When you weren't looking, he would put his hands on me and make the most lewd statements. I... hated him."

  Lord Chatsworth's eyes darkened. "I suppose there was no reason to hope he would act charitably toward you. Perhaps he had already gotten wind of your reputation and saw no reason to treat you with respect. What is done cannot be undone, but you will rue the day you shamed me, miss."

  "Papa! I never allowed a man to ... I didn't... you don't understand." She was horrified that her father should believe she had behaved in an unmaidenly fashion. "I'm sor—"

  "Stop saying you are sorry. You don't yet know what the word sorry means—but you will, Season. By God you will!"

  "What are you going to do to me?" she asked, raising frightened eyes to him.

  "You might well ask. I will tell you in good time, but first I want you to know what a scandal you have caused in London. Your conduct has even reached the ears of the king!"'

  Season couldn't remember ever having seen her father so angry. Her fondest wish had always been to please him and make him proud of her. She would have done anything to gain his approval—anything but marry Lord Ransford. She had always known she had been a disappointment to him, because she, his daughter, was alive, while his son and heir was dead.

  Now as he towered above her, Season could see his nostrils flare. "Ransford has blackened your name, miss, and in doing so, he has blackened my name as well. I called him out, but he refused to fight, saying you weren't worth his life or mine. What do you think of that, Season?"

  "Oh, Papa, I didn't think about you calling him out. I would never have forgiven myself if anything had happened to you," she cried, tears streaming down her face. Her father had always been a proud man, and she hated the fact that she had shamed him before the whole world. For the first time she wished she had willingly married Lord Ransford.

  "You can spare me your tears, Season. They will neither soften my heart, nor the stand I have been forced to take on your behalf. Do you have any notion what's being said about you in London?"

  "Yes, I assume it's being said that Lord Ransford and his friends found me in the hay . . . with the stable boy."

  "Yes, that and more. I couldn't believe that my own daughter would behave in such a disgraceful manner." He seemed to shrink visibly. "You look so like an angel, Season."

  "Papa, I never ... I would never—"

  "Dammit, girl, stop stuttering. If you have something to say, say it! However, I don't see how you will find anything to say in your own defense, though God only knows I wish you could."

  Suddenly Season became angry. Her father believed her guilty. How could he have so little faith in his own daughter? Tears of frustration blinded her as she stood up, looking her father squarely in the eyes.

  "How can you, my own father, believe what Lord Ransford told you about me? My greatest guilt lies in staging a tête-à-tête for Lord Ransford's benefit. I would hope that as my father, you would have more faith in me."

  Mason Chatsworth's eyes gleamed dangerously, but Season saw something besides anger in their green depths. Could it be that she saw pride in her father
's eyes? "You had better explain yourself, Season. What are you telling me?"

  "I am telling you that before that awful day I had never been so forward with a man. I used poor Tom, the stable boy, to my own advantage. I was angry because Lord Ransford had come to my home while you were away. I wanted to make the earl think I wasn't worthy of being his wife. Nothing happened between me and Tom but a harmless kiss. It was all staged for Lord Ransford's benefit, Papa."

  Season saw her father's lips dip into an almost smile, and she did see a glint of pride in his eyes. "By damn, did you now? I always thought you were sweet and mild like your mother, but by heaven, I'm finding out you have some of me in you."

  Season was astonished. She had always been in awe of her father. Thinking he wanted her to be a proper lady, she had tried to please him with her soft manners. On the rare occasions when he had been at home, she had always tried to act timid to make him like her. She wondered how different their relationship might have been if she had just been herself.

  "You aren't mad at me, Papa?" she asked in a voice filled with wonder.

  "Oh, yes. I am furious with you, but I can see that there may yet be hope for you. It seems you will not allow anyone to push you around, including me—will you? You fought me on this, and dammit, you got your way!"

  "I didn't mean to fight you, Papa," she said meekly.

  "Oh, yes, you did, Season—but I'm afraid your victory will be short-lived," he told her almost reluctantly.

  "What do you mean?" she asked, fearing her father had somehow convinced Lord Ransford to forgive her conduct and continue with the scheduled wedding.