by Henke, Shirl
“Why should I not? What further disgrace can come to me after Binghamton's denunciation?”
She looked defiant yet so vulnerable that it hurt him. His anger began to lessen as he struggled to regain some semblance of control over his temper. “When you refused to retire to the countryside, you laid yourself open for just this sort of pain, Beth. At the Hall you could paint and enjoy a measure of freedom—dress as you like, take Percy with you. It may not be Naples, but 'tis better than London.” And safer. “You would have none of the social duties you find so onerous.”
“And you would be free to pursue your social duties unencumbered by your wanton American countess—even if it meant dying senselessly in a duel with Quinn.”
“Your concern for my life is touching,” he replied with a tight smile. “Leave the corsair to me.”
“You can't undo what happened to me by killing him—if you can kill him.”
“Whom are you more concerned for—me or him?” he snapped.
She snarled a ripe Neapolitan oath, then said, “He sold me into that hellish place where you found me and you dare ask that!”
Derrick's shoulders slumped and he combed his fingers through his hair, exhausted and dispirited. He'd spent half the preceding night hashing out a compromise bill in Parliament to prevent the worst abuses in the workhouses, then met in the afternoon with the overseer from Lynden Hall, who had come to the city to explain discrepancies in the bookkeeping.
By the time he'd returned home and found her message it had been near midnight. He'd been furious with her for acting with such reckless irresponsibility, then insanely jealous when he found her tussling with that big red-haired oaf. Leave it to Beth to come out the victor, even against a cur like Quinn. Her gown had been torn, her hair disheveled...and she'd never looked more alluring to him, damn her!
“All we do is tear at each other, puss. We cannot go on this way.”
“Then let me go, Derrick,” she said quietly. “Divorce can create no greater scandal than what has already transpired. You will be vindicated if you—”
“No!” he roared, past all patience. The idea of losing her tore at his soul. Why was this her constant refrain? “You are my wife and I will not relinquish you. There is but one way to prove it...the same way I made you mine that very first time...” He advanced on her.
Beth stepped back. “No, Derrick. This will settle nothing.”
“It will settle the fire in my blood...in yours. I remember when you first came to me, so bold yet virgin.” He reached out and grazed her cheek with his fingertips, tracing the furiously beating pulse from below her ear to the base of her throat.
“I am no longer that virgin, Derrick,” she reminded him, knowing full well what he believed of her, powerless to convince him otherwise. Just seeing his reaction to Quinn had proven the futility of that.
“How well I know,” he whispered as he wrapped one arm about her waist and pulled her to him, “and how little I care...”
As his mouth lowered to hers, all she could think of was that Quinn might kill him; this might be the last time he held her in his arms. Nothing mattered at that moment but that he live. She would do anything to save him...even sell her own soul.
They sank to the floor gradually as the kiss deepened, running their hands over each other, pulling at clothes fastenings, eager for hot naked flesh on flesh. In the fireplace across the big room a cheerful blaze danced counterpoint to the autumn chill, casting shadows around them. He leaned over her as she lay stretched out on the thick Kirman carpet, his tongue tracing a moist trail over her collarbone to her bared shoulder where Quinn had torn the sleeve of her gown. Derrick brushed a delicate kiss on the already forming bruise.
Beth worked the studs from his shirt and slid her hand inside to feel the solid wall of his chest, reassured by the strong beat of his heart. How she loved him! Her hands moved up to his shoulders, urging him closer as she arched into his fierce, sweet kiss. When she felt the cool air on her thigh as he pulled her gown up, she spread her legs, reaching down to unbutton his fly, her fingers clumsy with haste and need.
She guided his hard staff toward her, but at the last moment he shoved her hand away and plunged deep inside her with a feral cry of possession. They rode hard and fast, slick, hot and gliding in the joining, their bodies desperate as they rolled across the wide floor, alternating with him on top, then her. He cradled her hips in his hands, her gown ruched up around her waist, her hair falling like a russet curtain that shielded her face and danced with the reflected light from the fire.
The end came swiftly. They both gasped at the suddenness and intensity of it. She sat straddling him, her arms braced on his chest, looking down into his face. He stared back at her; their eyes locked and held for a moment. “Is this all there is for us, Derrick?” she asked raggedly.
His hands glided up her arms, tenderly pulling her down to lie upon his chest, holding her in this most intimate of embraces, as if unwilling to let the world and all its problems come between them. He caressed her back as she laid her head against his throat. He could feel the silky wetness of her tears dropping on his bare skin. “We will survive this, Beth, somehow, some way, but it would be better if you were out of harm's way.”
Out of Quinn`s way, his mind taunted, but he brushed that aside, knowing that she despised the corsair for selling her to the dey. Whatever had been between his wife and the Irishman was well and truly over. As her husband, it was his duty to protect her and keep her safe. ”I will see you safely to Lynden Hall. Please.”
“But you will not stay with me,” she murmured against his throat. It was not a question.
“I cannot. There are very important issues to be settled here in London, but I shall be along in time for the holidays. My word 'pon it, puss.”
Beth sighed in defeat. If she remained in London to enjoy the exciting new people she had met at Lady Holland's salon, Derrick would never forgive her, and in his mind he already had much to forgive. But there was one trump card she must play. “I shall go if you agree not to duel with Quinn.”
He lifted her off him and sat up. “You once said I did not lack for nerve. Neither do you, m'dear, asking such a thing of me. I have challenged him. There is no way I can renege without being disgraced.”
And that, of course, settles that, she thought disconsolately. “Derrick, he is not a man who abides by your code of honor. He'll kill you.”
He gave her a lopsided smile, daring to believe for a moment at least that she actually might still love him. “Do you think I survived being a spy all those years abiding by the rules? I know his kind and I've dealt with them. I can handle Liam Quinn.”
He stood up and reached down to help her to her feet, then winced involuntarily as he pulled his injured shoulder. Beth saw him flinch and then looked at the huge dark bruise visible now that his shirt hung open. “Derrick! What have you done?”
“Tis nothing. I was jumping Lee's black and he unseated me,” he said, removing her hand and trying to button his shirt before she saw the extent of the injury.
Beth shoved aside his hands and pulled it open. “You're lucky you didn't dislocate your shoulder at the least—what were you thinking of? Jumping a horse was what killed your brother,” she said as she inspected the purpling flesh. “This will require a poultice to take down the blood. Come with me,” she instructed in her sternest nurselike tone.
As he followed her upstairs, he considered it fortunate that she'd been distracted enough by his injury not to defy his wishes. He would see her safely ensconced at the Hall after dealing with Quinn on the morrow. When he returned he would have to face the rest of the damnable tangles in his life. Being a spy had been considerably easier than being an earl.
* * * *
The next morning when Derrick made inquiries at Liam Quinn's lodgings, he was informed that the Irishman had mysteriously vacated them the preceding night. By mid-afternoon, it was apparent that Quinn, for all his braggadocio, had thought better of
fighting a duel with a member of the peerage.
Upon learning there would be no danger from Quinn, Beth felt a slight bit of reassurance regarding her move to the Scottish border, where Lynden Hall was situated. She spent the following day immersed in packing, hoping that this exile would not be the end of her life with Derrick. Would he take mistresses and leave her to raise their child alone? She would just have to wait and see what happened when Derrick joined her at Christmas.
By the time all Beth's trunks were loaded into the coach, it was half past ten. She went to her studio for a final check to see that none of her art supplies had been overlooked. If she was to be banished, at least she could work. Byron's idea of doing the seraglio paintings hovered in the back of her mind. If she painted harem scenes, Derrick would be furious. Better she sketch nice, safe English subjects.
When all was completed, she sent Donita with the last of the boxes, then started down the stairs. Midway, she heard Bertie's voice and hastened to the door to greet him. Of course the dear man would have called to see if she was all right after the way her husband had dragged her from Lady Holland's home.
“Bertie, how good to see you before we leave,” she said as he turned, smiling up at her.
“I was surprised to learn from my cousin that you're retiring to the country so early.” His watery pale eyes held a question.
Beth smiled, trying to reassure him, as they strolled out the front entry toward the waiting coach. “Yes, 'twill be restful to be away from the gossipmongers. I shall paint and rusticate until the arrival of Lynden's heir.”
“That sounds a good plan. I intend to spend an early holiday this year. Should be at Wharton by December. 'Tis a modest place, not far from Lynden. We shall practically be neighbors.” He hesitated, then added uncertainly, “I...er, that is, Annabella and Constance will be spending Christmas with me. It would be good to have the family together for the occasion—that is, if you wish,” he ended on an uncertain note.
Although Beth would have preferred old Fatima's company to Annabella's, she nevertheless replied, “Of course I would welcome Annabella and Constance...if you think my sister-in-law will wish to associate with me after the scandal. I would love to play with Constance again.”
Bertie's eyebrows rose and he puffed out his portly chest. “I will see to it that she agrees. After all, we're all the Jamisons left alive. No sense in letting such nonsense keep family apart. I will see that she introduces you to the neighbors around the Hall.”
Walking up to the coach, Derrick said, ”I would appreciate it if you'd look in on Beth after your arrival, Coz. I shall not be able to get away from London until Christmas.”
Bertie's brow crinkled in confusion as he looked at the black stallion Spralding was tying to the rear of the coach. “I understood that you were staying with Beth at Lynden Hall.”
“I am accompanying her, but I'll have to return as soon as she's settled,” was all Derrick volunteered. Let his cousin draw what conclusions he wished.
“In that case, perhaps I will move up my schedule and leave London sooner,” he said with forced joviality. “Can't have you rattling about all alone in the countryside with naught but a few old chawbacons for company.”
* * * *
The Count d'Artois frowned, lowering himself into a Rococo chair. Once comfortably seated, he looked up into his young cousin's insolent face, and the frown grew deeper. The stupid young pup was going to ruin everything for them if he did not put a period to it. “My wife has given me to understand that you sent Burleigh's daughter a most expensive trinket Friday last. A sapphire pendant, was it not?”
Bourdin nodded brusquely. “The lady was suitably impressed. These silly English misses are as enthralled by baubles as their counterparts in France. I shall offer for her within the month.”
“And you will be refused,” the count said flatly. “We live in England on sufferance of its peers. They may admire our bloodlines, but they do not admire blatant fortune hunters. When Burleigh catches wind that you're spending beyond your means just to impress the chit, the parsimonious old goat will never agree to the match.”
A feral smile spread across Bourdin's wide mouth but did not reach his cold gray eyes. ”I am not living beyond my means,” he asserted.
D'Artois snorted indelicately. “Pah. Do not try my credulity by saying you have won at the gaming tables. I know better.”
Bourdin shrugged and strolled over to the window of the Duke of Kent's small but elegant town house, which he graciously allowed the elderly emigres to occupy while he was out of the city. “Let us just say I have been offered a substantial reward for performing a task.”
“What sort of task?” the count asked suspiciously.
“One of a professional nature.”
A prickle of unease ran up the old man's spine. “Your only profession was killing for that Corsican horse thief!”
Bourdin only shrugged and smiled again. ”I am very good at it, cousin. You would do well to remember that.”
* * * *
This is the prison where I shall spend my exile. Lynden Hall was everything Beth had expected...and dreaded. An immense limestone monolith, it sprawled across a ridge overlooking a small river that flowed out to Solway Firth on the English side of the borderlands. The earliest portion, a medieval castle, had been constructed in the fourteenth century. Over the years, additions had been made. The building's two vast wings gave it the appearance of a huge griffin ready to pounce upon its prey.
Beth felt weary to the bone, a fact that she did not wish her husband to note. In spite of her assurances that she was strong and healthy, he had worried about the child ever since they'd started out two weeks earlier, arranging for frequent stops during the day. The nights were spent in uncomfortable inns with dreadful food. To ensure that she received enough rest, he had abstained from making love to her on the trip. Although she tried to deny it, his aloofness increased her feeling that her husband valued her less for herself than for the child in her womb.
Lynden Hall's grounds, which would have appeared bleak in late October anyway, were made even more dreary because of neglect. Hedges jutted out unevenly and withered grapevine twined throughout the shrubbery. She noted several dead trees that stood like skeletal sentinels as their coach approached the main drive.
Beth could see how the poor appearance of his childhood home affected Derrick. “Your solicitor warned you the estate manager had not been very diligent.”
“If Leighton had ever bothered to leave the gaming hells long enough to check up on it, he could have dealt with Farley as I did.” Derrick had fired the overseer after one interview in London. He'd engaged another man who came highly recommended. “Mr. Harris has been here for several days,” he continued. “I informed him that putting the household to rights was his first assignment. At least your quarters and some of the downstairs sitting rooms should be cleaned. I'll leave the rest to you.” He paused, looking at her bleak expression. “That is, if you feel up to the task of hiring more servants and overseeing the refurbishing.”
She had noted that he said “your quarters.” It was obvious that he did not intend to stay long. This would be her home...for as long as she could bear to live in such isolation. When they had first arrived in London, she had envisioned retiring to paint in the picturesque countryside. The utter isolation of this bleak open river valley and the cold gray pile of stone facing her were not the stuff of her dreams.
“Can we afford refurbishing all this?” she asked, knowing what the upkeep on her parents' Georgia plantation house cost. This great monstrosity dwarfed Blackthorne Hall. Just keeping the fireplaces burning to ward off the bitter northern winter would be a huge expense.
“Lee and Bella did not bankrupt the estate entirely. Wool profits were quite substantial last year. I expect to put business matters to rights in a few months.”
“Have you spoken with Mr. Therlow at Uncle Dev's London office?” Her father had suggested that Blackthorne Shipping wou
ld be interested in a business arrangement that might be lucrative for Derrick. Her husband had not indicated how he felt about engaging in trade now that he was an earl, but she knew his prickly English pride would probably reject the idea.
“My family lands are profitable enough. We will not require any charity, Beth,” he replied stiffly, then realized how harsh that sounded. ”I did not intend to appear ungrateful. You may redecorate the Hall any way you wish, puss.”
She softened at the wistfully sweet sound of the old endearment. “I have no idea how to manage a vast household such as this, but I will try.”
“You'll have Donita to help you—and Percy for companionship,” he said placatingly. “Perhaps my wardrobe can last out the year with him removed from the vicinity of my closet.”
That brought a ghost of a smile to her lips. “The day we left London your valet was shrieking just like Drum.”
“You'd have been shrieking too if you picked up a riding boot and found a dog had made water inside it—and that water was now dripping down the front of your trousers.” Derrick saw little amusement in the dog's antics. “The bloody beast gives me ill payment for saving his miserable hide from those lazzaroni.”
“I am sorry about your boots and the cravats...and the new riding breeches,” she added, knowing full well that the tally of Percy's war on Derrick's belongings was far higher. The spaniel had become her protector and seemed to intuit whenever her husband made her unhappy. Percy retaliated in the only ways he knew how. After a moment's hesitation, she dared to ask, “Derrick...how long will you stay at the Hall?”
Before he could reply the coach jerked to a sudden stop and a footman opened the door. Derrick jumped lithely to the ground and reached up to assist her down. This was a replay of their wedding afternoon, only this time the servants assembled in front of the house to welcome the master and his new wife were not jovial Neapolitans but dour Cumbrians, as grim and gray as the rainclouds overhead. Beth felt it an ill omen as she smiled at the household staff.
