Tuesday's Child (Heroines Born on Each Day of the Week Book 3)

by Rosemary Morris

  His eyes seemed to penetrate her own, seeking the key to the depths of her being, while he continued to address her with formality and behave formally.

  “Indeed, Lady Castleton, if you agree, since there is no impediment to our marriage, I suggest we marry in a few days by special licence.”

  So quickly? Did his eyes burn like flames, revealing unsuspected depths?

  “If we marry, I shall be in a better position to protect your son.” The colour in Dominic’s cheeks heightened. “However, we have known each other for only a short time. So, if you would prefer us to become better acquainted before I become your husband in fact as well as in name, I shall understand.” He cleared his throat. “I hope my shockingly plain speech has not offended you.”

  “No, indeed it has not. In fact, I appreciate it.” She spoke slowly, remembering Edgar’s impatience, which matched her own desire, to possess her on their wedding night. “Surely every bridegroom expects –” she broke off, afraid he would consider her immodest. Confound modesty! She looked forward to his kisses, shivering with an unexpected thrill and wondering what the touch of his bare skin against hers would be like.

  Dominic’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “When husband and wife have married in haste, perhaps some bridegrooms, including me, are prepared to wait before they claim a husband’s privileges in the matrimonial bed.”

  Never had she imagined such a considerate gentleman. Her eyelashes fluttered. Yes, he was right. Immediate marriage would enable Mister Markham to protect Arthur. She smiled at him. “You are all goodness, we shall marry without delay.” Harriet hoped it would not be long before he claimed what he called ‘a husband’s privileges’, but did not want to risk shocking him by saying so.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Harriet stretched on the comfortable mattress of the mahogany tent bed, with hyacinth blue silk curtains trimmed with gold fringes and a multitude of tassels. She relaxed, with a welcome sense of well-being, for she had slept soundly for time since she went to Clarencieux Abbey.

  The bed, large enough for two or three people, was another example of the luxury throughout Mivart’s Hotel. Would she and Mister Markham spend the first night of their married life here, or would he take her elsewhere?

  Her stomach tightened. What would the rector expect of her? Surely he would not expect a widow to be as shy as a virgin bride.

  Her eyes misty, she remembered being alone with Edgar in a bedroom for the first time. She had not been bashful. To the contrary, she matched his passion without reservation.

  Harriet sat up and punched one of her pillows. The first time she saw Edgar, a blinding light seemed to dazzle her and make her oblivious to everyone else. Now, she knew love came in many guises. Degree by degree, her love for Mister Markham increased until it lodged deep within her. Yet a shadow seemed to cross her heart.

  Despite Mister Markham’s kindness, not once had he indicated he reciprocated her love. If he did not, she would suffer the ‘tortures of the damned’. How could she bear it if he never treated her with more than gentle consideration?

  Her hands gripped together, Harriet sighed, considering the first problem. She could not find delicate words with which to indicate Mister Markham would be welcome to share her bed on their wedding night? Giggles forced themselves from her at the image of herself, an eager bride, coaxing her blushing bridegroom to delight in fulfilment of one of the marriage vows. With my body, I thee worship.

  Harriet frowned. Were clergymen more restrained than other men? She doubted it. After all, the Anglican priest and poet, John Donne, had not only written poems extolling love, he had fathered twelve children, and expressed his grief in poignant verse when his wife died.

  The bedroom door opened. “Good morning, my lady,” Plymouth greeted her. “You asked me to wake you at nine o’clock, but I see it’s unnecessary.” At the window, she looped back the blue velvet curtains with a gold cord. “Although it rained during the night, it’s a beautiful day.” She turned around. “Shall I fetch hot chocolate, tea or coffee and some bread and butter?”

  * * *

  Propped up by pillows in smooth linen cases edged with lace, Harriet balanced a silver tray on her lap. She sniffed appreciatively after pouring chocolate and raised a hand-painted porcelain cup to her lips. What did Mister Markham prefer to drink at breakfast? Ale, coffee, hot chocolate or tea? Well, a lifetime lay ahead in which to look forward to getting to know each other’s likes and dislikes.

  A deep sigh escaped her. The rector announced their betrothal in order to save her reputation. Should she, in turn, be honourable and release him from their betrothal? No she must preserve her good name for her boy’s sake.

  Late August sunshine penetrated the pale blue muslin curtains, which prevented anyone seeing into the bedroom from the street. Who could be morose when the sun shone? She could not. With enjoyment, Harriet drank and ate several thin slices of delicious bread and butter. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Time to dress. She must greet Arthur, and find out if Bessie needed anything, before Mister Markham arrived at half past ten to escort her to the attorney.

  * * *

  Mister Jenkins, an elderly man of law, dressed with scrupulous propriety in a black coat, black pantaloons, a grey waistcoat with narrow white stripes and spotless linen, stood to greet Harriet and her betrothed.

  “Lady Castleton and, I presume, Mister Markham, thank you for your punctuality.” Jenkins gestured to a pair of straight-backed wooden chairs opposite the expanse of his mahogany desk. He sat down. “Now, Lady Castleton, can you prove you are the daughter of Sidney Loxbeare and his wife, nee Mary Yates?” He drew some papers toward him.

  “Yes, I can. Mrs Tarrant, the wife of a major in my late husband’s regiment, employed Syddon, her attorney, to substantiate my claim.”

  Mister Markham gazed at the sharp-eyed attorney. “My future wife’s identity, and her son’s, has been proved to her father-in-law, the Earl of Pennington’s complete satisfaction.”

  Jenkins inclined his head. “My lady, Mister Markham, please accept my felicitations on your forthcoming nuptials.”

  “Thank you,” she and Mister Markham responded simultaneously.

  The attorney frowned while he rubbed his hands together. Perhaps they were cold in the room where little light penetrated through the small lattice windows.

  “If you have any doubts, Mister Jenkins,” Harriet commenced, “there are army officers, who knew my late husband and parents. They will testify that I am not an imposter.”

  Her betrothed’s scrutiny of the middle-aged man, which might have daunted someone of lesser calibre, did not waver while Jenkins spoke. “I presume it is unnecessary.” He rested his elbows on his desk. “Lady Castleton, subject to written testimony, I accept your claim.” A prim smile appeared on his face while he rubbed his hands together again.

  “My lady, your late uncle, Sir Giles, your father’s oldest brother regretted your grandfather’s decision to disown your father.” He picked up a document with a seal attached to it. “I have a copy of your uncle’s last will and testament. He expressed his wish, that if he predeceased your grandparents, for the Loxbeares to accept your father back in the…er-” He picked up the document. “Ah, yes, in his own theatrical words, the bosom of his family.”

  For as long as Harriet could remember, although she knew her parents loved her, she envied fortunate girls, cherished and pampered by numerous members of their families. “Do I have many relatives?” she asked, almost afraid of the answer.

  The attorney put the document down. “Yes, at Eton, your uncle and I formed a close friendship, therefore I am acquainted with the Loxbeares.

  “Your grandparents and Sir Giles are dead. His widow outlived him, and he is succeeded by his heir, your cousin, Sir Percival. He also has a sister, Elaine and a younger brother, Lancelot, who are your cousins.”

  Mister Jenkins’s eyes shone with obvious amusement. “If you will permit me to say so, at the time of th
eir births, I believe Lady Loxbeare was enthralled by the tales of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Your uncle indulged her when it came to naming their children.”

  Harriet wished she had met the lady with whom she shared a love of tales of times past.

  “Do my cousins want to make my acquaintance?” she asked, with the hope they did, yet prepared to be disappointed.

  “Your cousin, Sir Percival does. He is in town, so I suggest you write to him and request him to call on you.” Mister Jenkins leafed through the papers in front of him. He handed her one on which he had written her cousin’s London address, and also of his country house at the Essex coast.”

  “Thank you.” Harriet half-rose from her chair.

  “A moment, if you please, Lady Castleton,” the attorney said. “There is another matter.”

  Harriet sank back onto the hard seat of the mahogany chair.

  “Out of his great affection for your father, Sir Giles bequeathed a sum of money to him, which, as your father’s heir, is invested for you in Government bonds. With careful management it will yield one thousand five hundred pounds a year.”

  Harriet gasped. A fortune! Such a sum would have transformed her parents’ lives, and spared her so much suffering. Thank God! She could provide for her son, buy a house and a carriage and dress in style. She would also have the means to pay Bessie, Plymouth and several other servants including a groom and stable boy.

  “My lady,” Mister Jenkins prompted.

  “What can I say other than I appreciate my good fortune?” she asked.

  Mister Markham smiled at her then turned his attention to Jenkins. “The income will remain entirely at her ladyship’s disposal when we are man and wife.”

  His generosity never failed to amaze her. Harriet looked at him affectionately. Once again the same shadow seemed to darken her heart. If she did not need to protect her reputation for Arthur’s sake, she really would offer to release the rector from their agreement to wed. What a tangle! To cry off from their betrothal would result in scandal. Besides, even if she must consider her son, Harriet doubted she could bear to release Mister Markham from his promise to marry her.

  Later, astonished by her good fortune, she could not remember leaving the office with her future bridegroom. Yet, when seated next to him in the carriage on their way back to the hotel, she recovered her wits and thanked him for his help.

  He shrugged depreciatingly. “It has been my pleasure. There is little I would not do for you. Now, let us hope, for your son’s sake, we can trace your father’s bank.”

  “For Arthur’s sake?”

  “Yes, he is your heir. Please don’t be anxious. In the marriage settlement, which our attorneys will draw up, I shall confirm my decision not to benefit from your income. When it is ready, only our signatures and those of two witnesses are required.”

  That was more than generous of him for, by law, upon marriage everything a bride owned became her husband’s to dispose of however he wished.

  “Besides,” Mister Markham continued, “you need not fear I cannot provide for you and any children whom we might have.”

  Did she want more children? The memory of the hours, during which she struggled to give birth to Arthur returned with painful clarity. At one point, she would have preferred death to such agony. Harriet chastised herself. If she delivered another baby, the circumstances would be quite different to her ordeal in Portugal. While she was increasing she would be under the supervision of a skilled midwife and a doctor. Yet, despite the torture of those long hours in labour before Arthur was born, she had loved him from the moment she cradled him in her arms for the first time.

  While the carriage proceeded slowly through the city of London streets crowded with vehicles, Harriet tried to decide whether she wanted more children. Perhaps she did, for her heart always went out to tiny babies with petal-soft skins and charming dimples, whom she enjoyed cuddling. Maybe she wanted a son and a daughter, who would inherit their father’s expressive green eyes.

  “Lady Castleton, perhaps I should explain.”

  Mister Markham’s voice jerked her out of her thoughts “My income cannot compare to Major Tarrant’s, for he inherited an immense fortune from a nabob, who served with the East India Company. However, I benefitted from several not inconsiderable legacies. He laughed. “How serious you look, my delightful Lady Fair. Did you agree to marry me because you believed I am a gentleman of means with a fortune at my disposal?” he teased.

  “No, I must confess I did not consider the matter.”

  “How imprudent,” he teased her. “For all you knew, as my wife you might have been reduced to penury. I am flattered by your faith in me. Now, tell me why your face is so grave? You are now a lady of means about to contact your hitherto unknown relative.” His eyes darkened and regarded her anxiously. “Will you not smile at me?”

  Yes of course she would, but, first, in spite of her earlier decision not to do so, and even if it destroyed any chance of future happiness, and ruined her reputation, honesty dictated she must pose a question. She looked down at her gloved hands. “Are you sure you want me to be your wife? Please don’t think me unappreciative of your gallant offer, and understand I am guilt ridden because circumstances forced you to make it.”

  Only now, after offering him a means to escape from a betrothal thrust on him, did she realise how much more she loved him than she believed only a short while ago. It would break her heart if he rejected her. Scarcely able to breathe, she waited for his reply. When he did not speak, she tightened her hands to prevent them trembling. She could not bear the silence. “I doubt your parents will approve of the match and I know Gwenifer-”

  His green eyes afire like emeralds blazing in bright sunlight, Mister Markham turned on his seat to face her. One strong arm slipped around her waist and drew her close. A masterful hand cupped the back of her head. Too astonished to protest, she allowed him to draw her so close enough to breathe in the fragrance of his bergamot scented toilet water.

  His face swooped towards her; the expression in his eyes burned.

  Desire inflamed every part of her being. When he kissed her, it intensified.

  Mister Markham raised his head. “Have I answered your question?”

  Unable to speak, wishing he had prolonged the kiss, she stared at him, her senses in disarray.

  The fires in his eyes faded. “Please forgive my ardour. Since I first saw you I have wanted you in my bed, so, when the opportunity arose, I seized it and proposed marriage.” He held her hand so gently that it might have been made of the most fragile porcelain. “I did not mean to alarm you, and assure you I will keep my promise to allow you to get to know me better before we consummate our marriage.”

  Harriet tried to accept he did not love her. She shut her eyes to hide her disappointment.

  As for waiting to share their marriage bed, surely her passionate response to his kiss, when he held her so close that their bodies moulded together, proved her desire equalled his?

  “Lady Castleton, will you not speak to me? Believe me when I say that although I understand your heart is buried in your late husband’s grave, I am determined to make you happy. Moreover, I am equally determined to protect your son, whom I shall treat as though he were born of my own flesh and blood. Please believe I do not wish to cry off from our promise to marry each other.”

  Harriet did not doubt his sincerity. “Thank you,” she responded, longing to hear him say he loved her.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  After Dominic escorted his future wife to the Mivart’s, he instructed the coachman to drive him to his parent’s large mansion in Berkley Square.

  Alone, he punched his right fist against the palm of his left hand. Blundering fool, he cursed himself. Why did I not tell Lady Castleton I love her? His silent inner voice replied. “Coward, because you are afraid she does not love you.”

  The carriage drew up outside Faucon House, which faced a five acre square, where maje
stic plane trees provided welcome shade on hot summer days.

  Dominic entered the elegant house designed by Robert Adams sixty years ago. After a few kind words to Hobbs, his parent’s under butler, he made his way to the book-lined library.

  Seated at the large mahogany desk, he reviewed those who might be responsible for the attempt to murder Arthur. Murder, an ugly word! He wrote a list of suspects. The earl’s nephew, Gerald Stanton, the displaced heir, headed the list of Pennington’s relatives, which also included Jack, whose kindness to Arthur might be a mask.

  Thoughtful, he pressed the tips of his fingers together. Uncomfortable with the idea that a vicar had plotted to kill a child, Dominic forced himself to consider the facts. Stanton had the strongest motive. However well he disguised it, the earl’s nephew must resent both the loss of his inheritance and his uncle’s contemptuous manner towards him. In such circumstances, even the best of clergymen would find it difficult accept it was God’s will life?

  Dominic stood. He crossed the floor to look out of one of the tall windows. In the square, two young boys bowled hoops along the paths. Sadness enveloped him. He could almost be staring he at himself and Robert when they were boys. Why had Robert almost destroyed himself although he had so much to live for? There was a time when he could have turned to his older brother for advice. He wished he still could.

  How would Robert suggest he protect Arthur? Dominic turned around. He strode to a rosewood pier table, on top of which stood decanters and glasses. In need of fortification, he poured a glass of brandy.

  Seated at the desk again, Dominic sipped and considered several possibilities. Perhaps bribery would persuade one of the stable hands to admit to seeing someone loosen the girth. Maybe one of Pennington’s grooms would leave in return for a better paid position at the Rectory. If one of them accepted the offer, Dominic would persuade Fred, his groom to apply for the vacancy in Clarencieux’s stables. If Fred’s application succeeded, he could try to discover the truth. A bribe for the earl’s head groom might ensure Fred would be chosen. On the other hand, maybe Pennington’s stable hands visited an alehouse where Fred could gather information.