Elizabeth, The Enchantress

by Lavinia Kent

  The house was the same as she remembered and yet completely different. When she’d been small, it had represented safety and warmth. It had been her own fairy castle. Gnomes had lurked in corners, and once she was sure she’d seen a unicorn in the garden. Of course, she’d been younger than five at the time, but still the image remained. Her mother had told her it was only sunshine on leaves, but she’d never been convinced.

  And then her parents had died and all the magic had gone.

  It had felt more a dungeon than a castle those last years.

  But now, when she looked at it she only saw a house, a plain house. No flowers or greenery to liven it. No lights shining in the windows. Not a single sign of life. Her uncle must be residing there, but it appeared empty.

  The knocker was on the door. Somebody must be there.

  She crossed the street. Did she dare? She’d seen her cousins on several occasions at balls and other affairs, and she’d even spent a week at a house party with her aunt as a fellow guest. They’d all pretended there was nothing wrong. Polite smiles were exchanged. The weather was discussed.

  But, from the day she’d left, her wedding day, not one true word had been said between any of them.

  She picked up the knocker and let it fall. The clatter was louder than she’d expected.

  It seemed to take forever.

  Was nobody home?

  Should she pick up her skirts and scamper away like a young boy playing tricks?

  And then she heard steps—slow, heavy steps. It was too late.

  The door opened and she was confronted by a porter she’d never seen. He must have been hired after her marriage. She wondered what had happened to Tanvers, the previous porter, who had worked for her father.

  “I’d like to speak with Lord Danley. Can you tell him his niece, the Countess of Westhampton, is here?”

  The porter took her card and left her waiting in the hall. Some things had not changed.

  “This way, my lady,” the porter said, returning and gesturing her back toward her uncle’s study.

  “What do you want?” Her uncle’s voice caught her before she even entered the room.

  “And nice to see you also. Is it so exceptional that a niece would wish to visit her uncle?”

  “Oh, out with it, girl. Has he sent you packing now that he’s back? If he has, you’ll have to find someplace else to go. There are already too many women under this roof.”

  “No, he hasn’t sent me packing—quite the opposite, in fact.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  The problem was that Elizabeth wasn’t quite sure. It had been instinct that had brought her, but what exactly had she been looking for? She hadn’t been welcome in this house since her father died, and she clearly wasn’t now. “I guess I just wanted to see how reality compared with my memories.”

  “Hmmm.” Her uncle returned his attention to the papers before him.

  “Why did you not offer me a dowry? You know my father would have wished for me to have one.”

  “Well, what your father would have wanted didn’t matter, did it? I had my own family to provide for. I think I did enough just taking you in. And I did arrange suitors for you, suitors who didn’t need to be paid to take you.”

  “The were all old enough to be my grandfather.”

  “Just the thing for a young girl. It would have helped settle you down, kept you from being flighty like your mother.”

  Her mother, flighty? She’d never heard that description used. “I am not sure why you should say that.”

  Her uncle looked up and met her gaze. “My brother would still be alive if it weren’t for that woman. What sort of fool travels during a storm?” He looked down again. “You may go, if that is all.”

  “Would you really have made me marry one of those old men?”

  “I could not have forced you, but I do believe that my responsibility for you would have ended on your twenty-first birthday. How you supported yourself after that was none of my concern. I would have already done my best.”

  So William truly had rescued her. She’d never learned any skill with which to support herself, and without a marriage she would have been destitute and homeless. Whatever had happened afterwards, she must remember the great charity William had done her.

  Without saying goodbye she turned and left.

  This time her feet led her directly home.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  What on earth had she done? William could only stare about his chamber and wonder. He might have added some muscle in the years he’d been gone but he’d never been a small man. This room would hardly fit a child. In every other room of the house, the furniture was stylish, but sturdy and comfortable. Here it looked like furniture for a dollhouse—every leg spindly, every piece tiny. And the bed, where had she ever found such a thing? It was so narrow he’d fall out if he rolled over. And the length—maybe he could fit in if he folded himself in half.

  Had she never expected him to return?

  No, this room was clearly designed for his return. It was becoming very clear that his wife had a mean sense of humor if pushed. And perhaps she liked games. Because that’s what this seemed, her move in a game begun four years before.

  Then he smiled. She surely couldn’t expect him to sleep here—which meant that he might just have to find another bed.

  Turning, he faced the door that led to the adjoining room. Striding over, he pushed it open.

  Now this was more like it—and not at all what he’d expected.

  Or perhaps exactly what he’d expected. Vibrant colors filled the room—reds, greens, purples. There was nothing pink, or lavender, or pale blue to be seen. There was nothing obviously feminine about the room, and yet he’d never seen anything more sensuous. It spoke of luxury and comfort and a deep desire to experience everything, to live life to the fullest. That seemed a lot to put on a room, but this one carried it off.

  And the bed.

  This bed was not small. In fact it was bigger than the bed that had previously stood in his chamber. He walked over to it and placed a hand upon the coverlet. It was so plush that his hand sank into it, its bright mixture of red, purple, and green making him think of a stained glass window.

  It was easy, so easy to imagine his wife sprawled across it, her creamy skin stark against the color, her dark hair streaming on the pillows. And her body, that fabulous body that he’d never seen—his imagination was all too ready to fill in the details. Her breasts would be small, raspberry-tipped, just perfect for hand—or mouth. He imagined stripping off the crimson silk she’d been wearing earlier, baring those breasts, and then the tiny waist he could easily encompass with his large hands. He’d wrap his fingers about her, lift her to the bed and then . . .

  Shaking his head, he tried to clear the image of his wife lounging on the bed, her face full of desire. No matter how deeply he might long for it to be true—and despite the brevity of his renewed acquaintance, he was quickly realizing that he did long for his wife, both her body and her regard—he knew how unlikely it was to happen in the near future.

  Damnation. He had not counted on this. He sat on the bed, sinking deep into the thick covers. He’d spent less than a full day with her and he was already having erotic thoughts about her. It was not sensible and it certainly wasn’t scientific. It took time to know someone—and while lust was often instant, this felt far stronger than that simple emotion. And he knew plenty about lust after four years of abstinence.

  He needed time. Perhaps he should go to the estate after all. A few days of sensible thought would surely put everything back in perspective.

  No, that was the coward’s way. And he was no coward.

  He looked about the room again. It really was an amazing space. Everywhere he looked, something caught his eye. A jeweled box. A carved end table. A cut-crystal vase sending a myriad of flashes about the chamber.

  It was an interesting comparison to the much more sedate and elegant way she’d furnished
the rest of the house. A complex core to a simple exterior. He rather fancied his wife herself was like that.

  He considered what else he had learned. She definitely had a wicked sense of humor and was not afraid to use it. She had no problem completely refashioning something if it did not suit her, but could leave that which found her favor alone. And she could be a contradiction; a romantic soul who could enjoy a novel and still want to work her way through a dry text on plant life. He loved botany and even he would admit that most of the texts were unreadable.

  He was most definitely intrigued. Getting to know his wife was turning out to be quite a delight.

  The first step was done. He’d learned what he could from her surroundings.

  Next.

  Hmm. Next he would get to know her friends, observe what those who knew her well were like, what they thought.

  He considered the women he had met today. There had been tension there, but the underlying care and affection and been unmistakable. And then there was the matter of those damned cartoons. He might have ignored polite society for years, but knew well the harm such rubbish could cause. He would have to put a stop to it, find out who was behind them. He still thought the underlying motivation must be more complex than simple revenge.

  It would be nearly impossible for him to approach any of the women, but he’d known several of their husbands in his boyhood. It would be a simple matter to become reacquainted. If he headed off to his club right now it was likely that one or more of them could be found.

  He could leave a message with—no. He considered his wife’s sense of humor. Walking over to her desk, he opened it and pulled out a piece of stationery. A pen lay upon the desktop, but he didn’t see any ink. None in the top drawer. He pulled out the second. All the letters he had written her were there, wrapped in a blue ribbon.

  He tapped them once with his finger. Then closed the drawer. He would not intrude.

  He pulled out the last drawer. No ink. A few loose ribbons. A pair of scissors. A pack of playing cards. A small notebook. Ahh, there in the back, something green and glass, a bottle? Slipping his hand to the back of the drawer he reached for it. Smooth round glass, solid and heavy, long and thick, slightly cool. He pulled it out.

  And almost dropped it.

  What was his wife doing with that?

  The house was quiet as she entered. The late afternoon sun was too low to shine through the windows and the hall was dark. Dark and silent.

  William must be out. She didn’t know why that surprised her. There must be plenty of friends he needed to visit after his long absence.

  So why did her home feel so empty? It was no different than it had been yesterday, and the day before. She’d always appreciated her isolation, enjoyed being accountable to no one.

  Dropping her bonnet beside the door, she waved her porter away. She didn’t require anything. With weary feet she climbed the stairs. The mirror at the top stopped her and her hand rose to her cheek. A light red mark covered the left side. It wasn’t very noticeable. She was sure her uncle had not even seen it, but to her it stood out bright. One more marker of the tangle that had become her life this last week.

  Powder would cover it easily. Nobody would ever know . . . except that they’d been far from alone in the park and someone was bound to have seen, and talked.

  There were still titters about her pushing Linnette into the lake. This would bring it all forth again. She’d done nothing wrong, so why was she being cast as the villain?

  All she wanted was peace—well, perhaps that was not all. This whole thing had begun because she’d decided it was time to take a lover. The world had been passing her by for years and she had run out of patience.

  With her husband home, a lover was out of the question—at least for now. Unless she wanted to contemplate William himself. She certainly found him attractive. How could she not? He was everything a man should be: big, strong, muscular, smart, adventurous, brave, dark-haired, blue-eyed, clever, kind, and . . .

  She was being ridiculous. Anybody reading her mind would think that she was in love with the man, or at the very least infatuated. She certainly didn’t know him well enough for that. It was no longer clear that she ever had. What little she had known had clearly been only a child’s dream. She had never known the real man.

  He was kind, though. And big and . . . No. She would stop at kind. Returning to her uncle’s home today had brought forth all the memories of what life had been like, of how lonely she’d been—and how trapped.

  If William had not rescued her, she would still be back in that world—or perhaps a worse one. None of the men to whom her uncle had presented her could ever have been considered kind.

  She would need to forget her anger and accept what was. She could have been far more unfortunate in a husband.

  Dropping her hand from her cheek, she stared at the mirror for a moment longer, not seeing her present self, but seeing the thin, scared girl from four years ago.

  The girl who had wanted only one thing.

  Love.

  It was too bad that was not what her husband had offered.

  She looked in the mirror at that thin, scared girl and then stiffened her spine, pulled herself up. That was not who she was any longer.

  Too much thinking. If William wasn’t home, she would change for the evening. There was a musicale at Lord Witherspoon’s tonight and the other ladies, her friends, were sure to attend. She hadn’t been sure she would go. Musicales were not her favorite way to spend the evenings—somebody was always far, far off tune—but it was important that she see her friends and try to control any damage caused by that afternoon.

  And if Linnette was there—if Linnette was there she would apologize. It wasn’t that she actually felt she had anything to apologize for, it was simply that friendship was more important than who was right.

  If she was ever going to truly trust anyone, it would be the ladies.

  With that thought in mind she opened the door to her bedchamber—and stopped mid-stride.

  William was in her room, at her desk, a drawer pulled open.

  Her first thought was to wonder if he’d seen the packet of his letters, opened them, seen her tear marks upon the early ones, her angry scribbles on the middle ones, and her careful notes on the various plants he discussed in the later ones.

  And then she realized what he was holding, realized it was far worse than that.

  She swallowed. Stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

  The click of the catch filled the room.

  Their eyes met. Her mouth was so dry it was almost impossible to form words. “What are—you—doing—in here?”

  He stepped in her direction, held out the object in his hand.

  “Isn’t the better question, what are you doing with this?”

  She didn’t think she could ever answer that question, it would damn them both. “I believe that is my business.”

  “I am your husband. I believe that very much makes it my business. Who gave it to you?”

  “Perhaps I purchased it.”

  “Did you?”

  Despite her wishes she could not lie. “No.” Her glance stayed locked with his.

  He held it out in front of her face. The sunlight shining through the back window caught it, casting a ripple of green light throughout the room.

  There was no mistaking what it was.

  A glowing green phallus.

  She could see that she was not reacting as he expected. He expected her to be embarrassed and all she felt was anger. Anger at him—and at that thing he held in his hand. Heat rose in her cheeks. How dare he go through her belongs and then confront her as if he had every right to?

  “Do you know what it is for?”

  She wished she could burn him with her eyes. “Do you think I am an idiot?”

  “I don’t know what I think, now that I’ve found this. I had tried to discount your hints about lovers, but now I wonder. Tell me, do you enjoy this m
ore than the real thing? Perhaps these lovers you’ve had have been sorely lacking.”

  One. Two. Three. She would not explode. She would not. She reached out and took the phallus from him, holding it lightly in her palm. She wanted to throw it across the room, to watch it crack into a million pieces. She should have done that years ago.

  Remembering her determination to be strong she calmly—oh so calmly—held it up to the light. “Do you want the truth? I am not sure that you do. It may actually be worse than what you think.”

  William placed a hand under her chin, tilting it up to him. Their eyes met and she saw questions in his she was not sure she was ready to answer. It was so hard to be mature, to try and think of the future, when what she wanted was to scream and rail against the past.

  Why did he have to return now? Why did he have to act as if he cared? He had left her. He had no rights now.

  “Tell me the truth.” His voice was low and filled with both doubt and determination.

  Holding his gaze for a moment, she considered. When she first saw him holding the thing—the dildo, she thought that was the right word—she’d never considered that she would tell him the truth. Now she thought maybe it was what was needed.

  Her chin ached from the angle at which he held it, and she pulled it down, twisting away. She walked to the bed and sat, sinking down into it. This room was her place of safety, she’d created the bright colorful world she longed to live in. It was not the place that she would have chosen to have this conversation.

  “You saw the cartoons this morning?”

  “Yes, of course. You were there—but . . .”

  “Just let me finish.” She looked down at the glass penis. It was quite a pretty thing. She remembered the first time she’d seen it. Her immediate thought had been that someone had sent her a paperweight. Then she’d realized and a cold pit had grown in her stomach. “It is not the first time I have seen that cartoon. Oh, today was the first time I’d seen that exact one, but I’d seen a dozen that were almost the same—me begging, beseeching—you turning away, uncaring, unwanting, disdainful. This was actually much more pleasant than some of the others. At least, I had my clothes on and wasn’t performing any strange sexual acts.”