A Ring From a Marquess

by Christine Merrill

  ‘A bottle of wine at the wedding breakfast is not so very much. And I did give him reason to be angry,’ Margot said, surprised to be defending him.

  ‘If only the wine were all,’ her sister said, with a disappointed sigh. ‘I had no idea that he would arrive at the church so foxed he could not manage the vows.’

  At this, Margot laughed. ‘You thought he was drunk?’

  ‘How else to explain the fact that he could not say the few simple words he had promised to?’

  ‘He could not speak because he stammers,’ she said, amazed that her sister did not know it already. ‘Bs and Ds are especially bad. When he learned our last name…’ The poor man had been tongue-tied. ‘I gave him permission to call me Margot,’ she said, remembering his smile of relief.

  Then he had offered to make her Mrs Standish, for convenience’s sake, if nothing else. They had laughed together over it. When he had left, she had blushed for the rest of the afternoon.

  ‘That cannot be,’ Justine said. ‘We have all seen him, here, and in London, and no one has mentioned it before.’

  ‘That is because he does not talk if he does not have to,’ Margot said, stating the obvious. ‘Have you never noticed how carefully he chooses his words? He avoids that which he cannot say. But when he has no choice, as in the church today…’

  It must have been horrible for him. Then, over breakfast, she had taunted him with it. Suddenly, the anger inside her turned to shame. Whatever he had done to her, she had no right to attack him over something that pained him as deeply as this did, especially since he had no control over it.

  Justine was still doubtful. ‘How do you know of this, if none of us have seen it? Will’s brother, Bellston, has known the man for years and has nothing to say about him other than to announce that he—’ She broke off, embarrassed.

  Margot gave her an expectant look.

  ‘That he was almost as big a prig as his father, Larchmont,’ Justine finished.

  At this, Margot laughed. ‘None of you know him as well as I do.’ She stopped, surprised. She had said that without thinking. But if she was the only person who had noticed his stutter, it was probably true. Until the problem with the necklace, she’d have sworn that the real Stephen Standish was a complicated man, by turns roguish, funny, gallant and passionate.

  And then, suddenly, everything had changed. Why had he turned so cold to her, treating her like a stranger? It would have made sense, if he actually believed any of the things he had accused her of…

  Justine was staring at her, probably confused by her silence. ‘Well, if you seriously think you know him, then perhaps there is hope. But my offer still stands. If you think you have reason to avoid his home or his bed, then come to me. You will be welcome.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Margot said. ‘But I think, for now at least, things will be fine as they are.’ No matter how bad it might be, she would not be running to her sister with her problems. If there was anything to be done that would make a marriage easier between her and her new husband, it would have to be decided between the two of them.

  When Justine left, it was time to close up for the evening. Margot looked with longing at the little flight of stairs that led to her apartments above the shop. How easy it would be to forget about the morning and simply climb them, to put her tea on in the little kitchen and go to sleep in her narrow but comfortable bed?

  Only to have Fanworth come and haul her out of it, she supposed. Even if she had not promised to return to him, her discussion with Justine left her feeling unsettled. When he had been sweet and kind to her, she thought she’d understood him. Then he had been cruel. But she was still sure she understood his reason for it.

  Now she was lost again. The laughing, kind Stephen Standish had been real. Given his unwillingness to reveal his impediment to the world, he’d never have paraded it before her, simply to get her to bed. But then, why had he changed? Had Mr Pratchet lied about his involvement? But then, where had the rubies come from?

  Thinking about it made her head hurt. Or perhaps it was the lack of a decent meal. If she had swallowed her pride along with her share of the wedding breakfast, at least she might not be hungry.

  If there was no supper waiting for her, she would insist that something be brought to her room. If she went to her husband’s bed tonight, there was no reason to let nerves prevent her from eating. The worst was over. Her maidenhead was gone and what they were about to do was sanctioned by church and society.

  And, if she was perfectly honest with herself, it might be enjoyable. Her whole body trembled when she thought of the last time she had lain with him. Despite what she had said to him at breakfast, she looked forward to doing it again, without guilt. It would be even better if there was a chance that she might find her way back to the Stephen she had fallen in love with.

  Then she remembered the girl in the street. She might pine for their former familiarity. But it seemed he had moved on to another.

  As she shut the front door of the shop and locked it, a black carriage pull forward, from the corner. ‘Your ladyship?’

  She glanced at the crest on the door and the colours of livery. She had not seen it before, but it must be Fanworth’s. Her new family colours. She turned to the groom.

  The man bowed. ‘Lord Fanworth sent us to retrieve you. If you are ready, of course.’

  She could argue that she preferred to walk, but what would be the point, other than to make life more difficult for this poor man? ‘Thank you.’ She allowed him to help her into a seat for the short ride to Fanworth’s apartment.

  And today, when she entered, it was through the front door. The look on Mrs Sims’s face was still not what Margot would call welcoming. But at least the woman held her tongue as she took Margot’s bonnet and cloak, and escorted her up the stairs.

  Things had changed since her last visit. When the door opened, she had expected to see Fanworth’s private sitting room. Instead, most of the furniture had been removed and his bed and dresser had been moved into the space they’d occupied.

  Margot raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Your room is through here, your ladyship.’ The housekeeper led the way through the changing room, to what had been the master bedroom, then turned and abandoned her to her fate.

  When that woman had said it was her room, it had not been a generalisation. All traces of masculinity had been scrubbed from it. The walls and the windows were hung with cream silk and the large bed had a matching satin coverlet and chiffon curtains that would be useless to keep out the morning light. Since she was often up before the sun, it probably didn’t matter.

  It appeared that the decorations had been chosen to remind her of the shop. If so, it was a confusing message. Was it to remind her that her new job lay here, in this bed? Or was it simply an effort to design a room to suit her tastes?

  She opened the nearest cupboard and found the dresses she had ordered while shopping with Justine. Apparently, the woman had saved time and sent them directly to her new home. Which meant the drawers on the dresser must contain the scandalous nightclothes that Justine had made for her wedding night.

  When she had thought of this moment, over the last few weeks, she had envisaged her things stacked haphazardly in the corner of the room, a reminder that their owner did not quite fit in this new world that had been forced upon her.

  She had been quite wrong. For someone she suspected of marrying her as little more than an afterthought, Fanworth had taken surprising care to make her feel welcome in her new life.

  ‘Is it suitable?’ He stood behind her, in the doorway to his own room, and had been watching her reaction. ‘The entry to the hall is not yet finished. The carpenters were late.’ He pointed to a place on the wall.

  He meant a doorway, she supposed. But he had been careful not to say the word in front of her, for fear of a stutter. It made her strangely sad. ‘It is lovely,’ she said.

  ‘They are setting a meal on the table in my room. If you wish…’ He did n
ot finish.

  ‘Of course. Thank you.’

  Once the food was served, the housekeeper disappeared, leaving them alone together for the first time in their married life. If she had expected Fanworth to relax, she was mistaken. If possible, he became even more quiet, as he ate from the plate set in front of him without so much as a clink of cutlery.

  She tasted her own food, then set down her fork, reached for her wine and took a hurried sip. It appeared that Fanworth’s cook was of the sort that was heavy handed with seasonings. The capon on her plate was so salty as to be practically inedible. She tried the carrots beside it only to discover where the pepper had been used. To make up for the two of them, the potatoes had not been seasoned at all, only burnt dry. She glanced at her husband who was close to clearing his plate without comment. ‘How was your food?’

  ‘Excellent, as usual,’ he said, but made no effort to elaborate.

  Either the man had no taste at all or she had been sent another subtle message of disapproval from the household staff. To test her theory, she reached for the dessert course, which was a shared pot du crème, garnished with berries. It was exquisite. She gathered it to herself and stuck in her spoon without bothering to fill her plate.

  He watched her for a moment as if trying to decide if the behaviour had significance or was an aberration in manners worthy of correction. Then he reached for her plate, tasted her food and immediately spat into his napkin. This was followed by a torrent of perfectly pronounced cursing and the same foul look he must have given to her family over breakfast.

  Then he rose and turned to the bell pull.

  ‘No.’ She put her hand on his arm to draw him back down.

  ‘This cannot stand,’ he said, waving his hand at her plate.

  ‘It can wait until tomorrow.’ She had almost said, do not ruin tonight. But she had no proof that statement was appropriate. It was quite possible that there was nothing left of the day to be salvaged.

  He sat down again, still irritated. But since his mood was in defence of her, she did not mind it so very much. Then he switched their plates, offering her what little was left on his and setting a buttered roll beside it.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, too hungry to pretend that his sacrifice had not been necessary. She tasted and found he was right. The food was excellent, if the cook liked and respected the one being served. That was some consolation. It would be far easier to deal with a tantrum in the kitchen than complete incompetence.

  Fanworth’s act of kindness was a silent one. He made no effort to comment further on the staff, the day, or his plans for the night. He simply stuck his spoon into the opposite side of the custard and ate.

  It was clear he had no intention of volunteering information. If she wanted answers, she must find the questions that would most easily coax the truth out of him. He set down the custard bowl and took a sip of wine, watching her over the rim of the glass. She did not need words to guess what he was thinking about. His gaze had a confidence that had been absent in church.

  She felt a low burn in her belly at the way his eyes travelled over her skin. And, for a moment, she actually wished she was wearing one of the new dinner gowns that would bare her shoulders so he might stare at them. Perhaps then he would feel as distracted as she felt. If she was not careful, by the time the meal ended, they would be in bed and she would have learned nothing.

  She wet her lips. ‘May I ask you something?’

  ‘I cannot stop you,’ he said, with the faintest of smiles.

  She grasped one hand in the other, twisting her wedding ring off her finger and handing it back to him. ‘Why did you give me this?’

  ‘It was made for you.’

  It had not been. She should know for she had taken the specifications herself. Though, if she was honest, she had been loath to let this piece go. He had encouraged her to create a ring no woman could resist and she had used her own tastes as a guide. But to wear it herself defeated the purpose. ‘Surely there was some family ring that was meant for the woman you were to marry.’

  She had almost said, ‘For me.’ But none of the Larchmont entail was intended for the likes of her. They both knew it.

  He set the ring on the table next to his glass and went to his dresser. He returned with a wooden jewellery box, dumping the contents on the cloth beside her plate. Then he rooted through the pile with the tip of his finger before producing a ring. ‘This.’

  She picked it up and examined it with the critical eye of a jeweller. The setting was too large for the stone, which was an inferior grade of opal so old it was losing its fire. Opals were bad luck in wedding rings, for exactly that reason. If the lustre signified the spirit of the wearer, this spoke of a fading soul.

  ‘Ugly, isn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘It is,’ she agreed, unable to lie.

  He reached forward and gathered her hand in his, then picked up the ring and slipped it back on to her finger. ‘This is not.’

  So it had not been an insult at all. ‘When you bought pieces from me, what did you do with them?’

  He went back to his dresser and retrieved another box, this one a lustrous ebony. When he opened it, the pieces she had sold him were nestled in the white-silk lining.

  ‘You did not give them away,’ she said, numb with disappointment.

  ‘Who would I have given them to?’ he replied with a half-smile rather like the one she remembered from the shop.

  ‘You spoke of an actress, a mistress, cousins…’

  ‘I needed a reason to frequent the shop,’ he said, as though pleased with his own cleverness. ‘I saved them. For you.’

  No one had seen them. No one at all. She had worked so hard to make them perfect, knowing that the woman on the arm of a marquess would draw all eyes in a room. They would see her jewels and whisper. Then they would come to de Bryun’s.

  And all this time, they had been hidden in his bedroom, invisible. Now he was staring at her, as though waiting for her to be grateful for the gift.

  ‘They were meant to be worn, not locked away in a box,’ she said softly. ‘I’d hoped that people would admire them and ask about the jeweller. It would bring more business.’

  ‘People will see them now,’ he said. ‘On the Marchioness of Fanworth.’

  Then she might as well put them back in the box and take them to the shop for resale. She had no time to parade about Bath in the evenings like a walking advertisement.

  ‘You never wear j-jewels,’ he added. ‘You should.’

  ‘I am surrounded by them all day,’ she said, with a sigh.

  ‘Exactly,’ he said, as if they were in some way finding a common ground. ‘Yet you act as if you are not worthy of them.’

  How could she explain that it had never been her desire to wear the things she made? Granted, the ring was attractive. She had designed it to be so. But she had never imagined it on her own hand.

  He took her silence for assent and reached into the tumbled pile of jewels, slowly drawing forth a string of pearls and draping it around her neck. It was a long rope with a gold and diamond clasp in the shape of joined hands. It was beautiful, of course, but it did not suit her. Even when wrapped three or more times about her neck it would still be too long for the modest gown she was wearing.

  ‘Where is the lace?’ he said with a slight frown, tracing the neckline with a finger.

  He meant Justine’s fichu, she supposed. ‘I left it at the shop. It was in the way.’

  ‘It was lovely.’ He shrugged. ‘Not as lovely as you, of course.’ Then he took her by the hand and pulled her to her feet, to stand before a full-length mirror beside his bed.

  And so it was to begin. She had convinced herself that she was not nervous. It had been a lie. A few compliments and a touch of his hand, and her pulse was racing. Knowing what was to come had removed the fear from her wedding night. But dread had been replaced with eager anticipation.

  He stood behind her now, loosening the back of her gown, until her shou
lders and throat were bare and the pearls could rest against them.

  ‘Luminous, like moonlight,’ he said, tracing them with his finger. ‘But they are no match for your skin.’ He placed his palm flat on the beads, rolling them against her bare throat.

  Despite her unwillingness to wear them, she enjoyed the feel of the pearls pressing into her flesh and the roll against her tired shoulders. He released the loop he had been holding and let it slither under the bodice until it swayed between her breasts. Then his hands were behind her again, undoing more hooks and laces until she stood bare before the mirror with her bodice, stays and shift bunched at her waist.

  He took up the pearls again, rolling them up the slope of one of her breasts, sliding them back and forth across her nipple. ‘Now tell me, how do you like your own work?’

  They were not really her work at all. Though she had made the clasp, the oyster had supplied the majority of this perfection. She had but given them order. But words failed her. Her reflection showed a ring of pearls about her breast. As he tugged on it and as the loop tightened, the skin around her nipple tightened as well. His hand cupped the other breast from beneath, the tip of it pinched firmly between ring and last finger.

  He pressed kisses into her shoulder, until his lips rested warm against her ear. ‘I want to take you wearing nothing but pearls.’

  He had not stuttered. How strange. But everything about this was strange. She was staring at her own body in a mirror, watching him touch it, hardly daring to breathe for fear he would stop. Now she was helping him as he pushed the skirts to the floor. He settled her own hand to the wet place between her legs so that she could touch herself as she watched the pearls sway against her belly.

  It was wicked. It was decadent. And she loved it. She rubbed her back against the wool of his coat for it seemed to heighten the sensation of her own hand to know he was there, hungry eyed, watching her pleasure herself. Her breath caught in her throat as the first tremors of arousal began.