It was easy to imagine Andrew as a happy and playful father… A powerful emotion swelled in her throat, and she couldn’t help leaning into his hand as it rubbed over the place that could be round and swollen by spring, if the fates were kind.
“What is it? Are you well?” Andrew’s voice brought her back from a vision of Christmas morning, chaotic with two toddlers tossing paper in the air, a baby on her lap, while Andrew tinkered with a toy train that needed fixing.
Oh — she had quit drawing. Alysia nodded, idiotic tears blurring her vision. She resumed making lines on the paper, trying to blink away the marvelous but distracting image of the adorable chocolate-eyed boy who lived in her dreams, calling her mama…
Andrew tried to let her concentrate, but his soft grunts and hums as he watched her draw let her know when he was particularly pleased. Her eyes, her breasts, her hair, and interestingly, the hollow below her navel seemed to evoke his appreciation. “Hmm. Pretty. Very provocative,” he murmured, grazing his fingers along her abdomen.
“Andrew?”
“Yes, my love?”
“I can’t draw there with your hand in the way. Unless you want me to put it in?”
“Oh. Sorry.” He rested his arm in the curve of her waist.
As the drawing took shape, Alysia flushed with pleasure and tried to identify what was so familiar about it. Then she recognized the same possessive devotion in Andrew’s demeanor, and the same adoring expression in hers, which she had so badly envied when she drew the Montegues. True love, as Lady Devon had called it.
However, singular to this drawing was a smug, lazily satisfied look in Andrew’s eyes, blazing with warmth. Alysia looked demure and sensuous; it was apparent she had just been well-loved.
Her heart leapt, and she checked the mirror to make sure she hadn’t invented it. No, it was true; they truly looked that way. Beautiful.
“Beautiful.” Andrew traced the lines with his finger without quite touching the paper. He knew better than to smudge the pencil. “I cannot fathom how you do that, Lisa, but this moves me. I can see that you love me.” He turned her chin to kiss her soundly, then let her finish the drawing.
Once she presented it to him, he studied it for a long while then thanked her again with a kiss that made her breathless and in a mood to provoke him. He put her off, which only made her tease him more.
He unhooked her arms from around his neck and scowled. “Alysia, you can’t be serious. You will not be able to walk tomorrow.”
“Blame it on the art; I always act on inspiration.” She hardly recognized herself as a shameless flirt. She arched her back to stretch, drawing his gaze as she hoped.
“I have important letters to write,” he argued, staring.
“Later,” she insisted. He sucked a breath through clenched teeth, and Alysia sighed, running her hands down her torso.
“Betsy is bringing lunch soon.” Clearly, he lacked conviction. She had him.
“I think she will know to come back later.”
“Lisa¯”
“Do you always talk so much in bed?” She smiled and rolled to lay over him.
He looked puzzled, then sheepish. “No.”
“Good. Then tell me, Lord Preston, what trading strategy do you advise for a volatile commodity?”
“Take action.”
****
It was time to pay the piper sooner rather than later.
Five weeks after the wedding and not quite three weeks after Alysia’s twenty-first birthday, Andrew’s parents arrived at Dunsbury in a panic. Their relief at finding their “heir and spare” alive and well lasted only moments before Lady Courtenay took in the sight of Alysia, occupying her role as hostess.
She said coldly, “So, it is true,” eyeing the elaborate heirloom ruby and diamond ring on Alysia’s fourth finger — the Dowager Marchioness’ wedding ring. No doubt Lady Courtenay couldn’t fathom why the courtesan’s daughter now wore it.
“Mama, may I present my Lady Preston? My wife, and your successor.” Did Andrew mean to give his mother an apoplectic fit?
Lord Courtenay leveled a glare at Andrew, his arm still resting across Christian’s shoulders. “Preston, a word, if I may?”
“Certainly. I am glad you asked; I have documents for you to sign.” Andrew referred to the legal transfer of property from guardian to husband, Alysia assumed. He took her hand. “You are a little late to wish Lady Preston a happy birthday, but we shall celebrate nonetheless.”
His crafty smile said, You are too late, old man, and his father’s cool stare said, We shall see.
A tense silence lingered.
Christian cleared his throat.
Nonplussed, Alysia suggested, “Tea, anyone?”
****
The door to Andrew’s office had barely shut when his father started in.
“I cannot allow it.”
“It is not for you to disallow. It is done.”
“It can be undone.”
“Impossible.”
“Annul it.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Do not cross me, boy. Where is your sense of duty?”
“Right where it belongs, sir: with my wife.”
Lord Courtenay scoffed and jabbed a finger at Andrew. “I will not stand for you to shame our line, to make a fool out of me¯”
“Father, Alysia is the daughter of His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor Franz Joseph of Austria.” He drew a deep calming breath. “But were she merely the daughter of your former mistress, it would make no difference to me.”
“You would turn your back on your duty? Forsake your family and all who depend on you, for the temporary comfort of one woman? For the love of all that is holy, Preston, is ruining yourself over her not enough?”
“First, I am fulfilling my duty. I have news, but first we resolve this.” Andrew added, “And there is nothing temporary about it. I already expect my heir.”
Lord Courtenay stiffened but didn’t appear surprised. “It could be from any number of men, Preston. Think! For once in your life make a decision consulting the proper organ.”
Andrew laughed heartily, further angering his father. When he finally answered, he was completely serious. “When I bedded my wife, she was a virgin,” he said quietly. “And bled on the sheets. Would you like to see the evidence, like some medieval miser?” Satisfying to make his father squirm.
“And furthermore, she has already missed her courses. She hasn’t said so, but I can count.” He shrugged. “And so it stands: my marriage is legal, consummated, and already fruitful.” He added with a mocking smile, “I thank you for the useful gift of inherited fertility.”
Lord Courtenay shot him a dark stare that should have turned him to stone, but Andrew regarded him coolly, unflinching, while his father fumed. “So, that is your news,” he said finally. “You have impregnated her.”
“No, that was to be expected. This is my news.” Andrew lifted a section of the Times and handed it to his father. “You have apparently not kept up with events in London.”
“No, Preston.” He snatched the paper. “I have rather been on a mad dash across the continent, fearing the imminent demise of my children.” He scanned the report, and Andrew struggled valiantly not to crow in delight as his father heated from his collar to the top of his head.
The source of the uproar on Threadneedle Street Tuesday was the quarterly posting for Higgins, Higgins & Squires of Boston. Shares traded at 80.5 pounds, totaling a staggering net worth of ₤992,640, and climbing.
The original sum invested, reportedly ₤648,000, originated as liquidated collateral from the combined resources of the Montegue, Cavendish, and Tilmore estates. HH&S shareholders saw a return of 35% on the eight-month investment.
Accusations of fraud and illegal speculation were put to rest by Mr. Trevor Marsden, manager and spokesman for The Rt. Hon. The Earl of Preston. The bond certificates were proven genuine and the company ledgers notarized. Parliament and the House of Lords in tandem
refused requests for indictment, citing lack of evidence of wrongdoing, though Sir Langton, Lord High Chancellor was heard to say, “Hooliganism ought to be punishable by death.”
What happened, and where did the money go? Where none on Threadneedle Street thought to look. The Rt. Hon. The Earl of Devon confirmed the deposit of an undisclosed sum made to the United Soldier’s Fund. When asked for a statement, Lord Devon was quoted thus, “God bless our valiant servicemen, and their families.” Requests for further information were denied, but reports indicate the whole of the HH&S profits were donated to the charity, an estimated bequeath of ₤344,000…
Andrew watched as Lord Courtenay skimmed other sections of the paper and found retractions and formal apologies, editorials filled with a spectrum of assessments calling him “a charlatan, a loose cannon and dastardly, deceitful magician,” or “the greatest financial genius of our time, a visionary, and surest candidate for prime minister.”
With his philanthropy made conspicuous, it was now unfashionable to blame him for the Empire’s decline in morality. Whether or not the ton forgave him mattered little; the King of Threadneedle Street was back on his throne. Some speculated on his wealth, tossing out numbers in the millions. The society columns finally put two and two together, connecting the news of his financial well-being with his recent wedding: he had outsmarted Lady Langton and the Lord High Chancellor.
His victory was swift and sound.
Lord Courtenay dropped the paper with a tired sigh and rubbed circles at his temples, a gesture Andrew knew meant emotional devastation. Heaven forbid he shed a tear.
Andrew slid a sheaf of documents across the desk and held out a pen. “Sign here. Sir.”
He watched Lord Courtenay take stock. His legal guardianship over Alysia expired, Andrew financially independent — he had no power.
Andrew resisted the urge to say, Checkmate.
****
After all the guests departed, Alysia walked circles around the moat with Andrew and Christian, watching the swans chase the geese. Only Andrew seemed undaunted, eager to impress her with his plans for Dunsbury. There had been far too much talking — and shouting — the past few days. It had left her rattled.
Lord and Lady Courtenay had agreed with the Dowager Marchioness only once, when she said Andrew was wild and disobedient. Never mind that he had rebuilt Dunsbury castle, settled down to raise a family, and hadn’t sunk the family fortune after all. Not Lady Devon’s urging to make peace for the sake of the future grandchildren nor even Lord Devon’s compelling The World is Changing speech persuaded Andrew’s parents in favor of his marriage. Lady Courtenay had seemed to choke on her thanks to Alysia for saving Christian’s life.
Alysia thought herself the only person unsurprised; pride and tradition were stubborn donkeys to pull by the bridle. Andrew hadn’t shown even the slightest contrition, calling her wife and Lady Preston at every opportunity. Out of pride, and to watch his parents bristle, no doubt. She had stayed aloof of the debate, neither apologizing to the Tilmores for what they perceived as her betrayal nor appearing smug. She represented Lord Preston now, and it was her duty to stand by his side. Even when he seemed more interested in vindication than reconciliation.
Andrew led her around the keep, his enthusiasm beginning to thaw her melancholy as he explained his vision for the remodeling. The ancient French gothic manor house came to life at his description; he wanted to keep the turrets and ivy-framed mullioned windows, the original gatehouse and lichen-darkened arcading framing the bailey.
He didn’t understand why she threw her arms around his neck and planted a joyous kiss on his mouth. He spoke of architecture, but what Alysia heard was pride in establishing a home, a reverence for history and a desire to make it his own while respecting its identity. To her it meant that a man who took such care with his property would treat her the same way, without trying to alter her. There would be no condescending guidance, no disapproval for her interests and passions.
“What is it, Lisa?” Andrew laughed and set her on her feet.
“I love you, Andrew, that is all.”
Christian whistled to the trees in polite distraction as Andrew replied in a low voice, “I will tell you exactly what I think of that, later.”
****
Before Alysia dressed for dinner, Marsden delivered a small white case and left without a word. She unfolded the note to see Andrew’s capricious scrawl. He wrote, Please wear these for me tonight. She unwrapped the chocolate truffles and nibbled on one as she opened the lid of the box.
She gasped — an elaborate jewelry set glowed in the lamplight. Breathtaking pearls, a smoky lavender color and set in designs she had never seen the like of. The necklace was not merely a strand, but an arrangement that resembled an elaborate tiara, or half of a snowflake. Woven into delicate patterns with graduated-sized pearls, it looked like some priceless artifact discovered in an ancient tomb.
She had told him about the baby yesterday. That was probably what the jewelry was all about. She smiled, remembering how pleased he had been, though not very surprised.
Alysia dropped her dressing robe to hold the necklace against her collar. She fastened the clasp and tried on the matching earrings and bracelet. Exquisite. And that he had picked the color to complement her eyes? Romantic. She looked in the mirror to see the luster of the pearls reflecting the lavender facets of her eyes, making them paradoxically smoky and bright. He would like that, she thought.
In order to accommodate the necklace, which draped low on her collar, she would have to wear a low décolleté. Something Parisian. She smiled, guessing Andrew had calculated that.
She put away the red taffeta dress laid out on her bed and dug in the back of the wardrobe for the sheer lavender and silver gossamer gown with the dropped sleeves and low-cut back. The front was not much higher. She checked the ensemble in the mirror and beamed at her reflection; Andrew knew what he was doing.
She pinned the hair over her temples in a jeweled comb and left the rest down in soft curls. After applying a bit of lavender water, she went downstairs to the dining room. Christian rose first then Andrew saw her and did the same, staring wide-eyed as his throat moved in a swallow. Ah, the power of being a woman.
Andrew kept glancing sideways at her throughout dinner, playful, salacious looks that made her heart dance. He made all kinds of promises with his eyes, and she counted the minutes until they could be alone.
Dessert had been served. Christian ate his strawberries and cream in a few rushed bites. He said straight-faced as he stood, “I think I will go to the library for a while, if you don’t mind. And I shall stay there, I think. For at least a half hour?” He looked between Andrew and Alysia, then amended, exasperated, “An hour, I mean.”
“Very well. Good evening, Christian,” Andrew answered without taking his eyes from Alysia. His dessert plate was still empty.
She greeted Christian absently while her mind raced, anticipating. Andrew had made love to her on his bed, of course, but also in the bathtub, outside on the lawn in the moonlight, in the library armchairs, on the piano bench with her arms resting on the keys, atop the battlements of the castle wall, in the hayloft, in the laundry on a pile of sheets, and even once on the ballroom floor under the chandelier when the afternoon light reflected the crystals all around the room.
She had an idea of what he wanted next. He had already sent away the servants. And strawberries were not supposed to be in season.
The dining room door had barely shut when he said in his low velvety bass, “Pass the cream, please?”
She placed the dish in front of him and asked innocently, “Do you want the strawberries too?”
“No.” His eyes roamed appreciatively over her necklace. “Well, yes,” he amended.
“Thank you for the pearls, Andrew. They are exquisite.”
“Yes, they are.” His secretive expression heated her from head to toe; he was undressing her with his eyes. She knew it. The tiny muscle in the corne
r of his jaw twitched as he clenched and unclenched his jaw, another way he fidgeted.
He lifted his hand and beckoned a finger, inviting her. She began to stand from her chair when he shook his head, then gestured at the table top. His bounced his eyebrows then winked, meaning he was serious. “Pass the strawberries?”
Alysia returned his playful smirk and leaned on the table while she watched him from under her eyebrows. She would play along. She sat on the table and rolled onto her elbows, then crawled on her hands and knees to Andrew’s place. She took his plate and tossed it to the floor. It shattered noisily, and his amused grin meant she had the right idea. She pushed her hair over one shoulder and leaned in, drawing his gaze.
He stood, reached behind her and undid the hooks with one hand. He made a suggestive purring sound as he saw she hadn’t bothered with a corset, or any underclothing for that matter. She knew she wouldn’t have needed it for long at any rate. Andrew pulled the skirt out from under her and looked at her wearing the necklace and nothing else.
He dipped his finger in the cream and licked it off, shoved a basket of fruit off the table, followed by an empty candelabra and a few more dishes. With their end of the table cleared, he laid her back.
“Strawberries and cream. My favorite dessert.”
About the Author
Moriah Densley sees nothing odd at all about keeping both a violin case and a range bag stuffed with pistols in the back seat of her car. They hold up the stack of books in the middle, of course. She enjoys writing about Victorians, assassins, and geeks. Her muses are summoned by the smell of chocolate, usually at odd hours of the night. By day her alter ego is your friendly neighborhood music teacher. Moriah lives in Las Vegas with her husband and four children.
Also From Astraea Press:
Prologue
Sprowston Hall near Norwich
Norfolk, England
September, 1799
The King of Threadneedle Street Page 27
