by Laura London
Lord Dearborne’s face seemed as if all emotion were torn from it. The eyes that met Peterby’s were curiously blank.
“Don’t you think I know that? You wouldn’t have let me in here otherwise.” His voice was soft but became light and dangerous as he turned his gaze to me. “But I must protest, Lesley. What a churlish way to receive such an exquisite invitation.” He walked over to the bed and lifted one of my tumbled curls. “Don’t tremble so, sweetheart.”
“A mistake,” I croaked miserably.
“I do agree that a mistake has been made. It should be my bed that you’re warming now and not Lesley’s. It seems only fair, doesn’t it? Noblesse oblige and all that.”
He put out one beautiful hand and pulled the sheets back from my body. His breath seemed to stop in his throat. “When I think of how long I’ve been wanting to do this and held back… By God, no longer. After all, if you’re handing it out, then I’ve sure as hell got the right to it since I’m the one who’s been paying for it.”
Lesley touched Lord Dearborne’s sleeve. “She’s only a child.”
“Then it’s time she became a woman. With her looks I’m surprised she made it to fifteen with a maidenhead.” He slid one arm under my shoulders and the other beneath my thighs. “Come, my love, and make your offering to Venus.”
Struggle was impossible. I had barely the strength to remain awake, and as I was lifted out of bed my head fell back against his shoulder so heavily that my mind seemed to float in a dreary vapor. As my vision cleared, I saw Lesley regarding me searchingly. My lips formed the word, “Help.”
“Nicky, don’t harm her.”
“If you want some hackneyed assurance that I’ll be gentle, you have it, but that’s all I’m going to promise. Lesley, for the love of God, don’t interfere with me now.”
My senses all ran together as sluggish as molasses. The world became a blur of shifting movement that ebbed and flowed like powder in a tilting hourglass. Everything leveled for a moment and I realized I was lying on a bed. I saw the Marquis of Lorne standing far, far above. His scrutiny made me feel like I was being caressed by an icy hand. He was loosening his cravat.
“Lord Dearborne…” It was no more than a whisper.
“Don’t, for Christ’s sake, keep calling me that. I hate making love to women who call me by my title.”
Another layer of nausea draped itself around my body. All the space in my brain compressed itself into one tiny agonized ball. Defeat coursed through me with such bitterness that I think in that moment I was a bit insane.
“Nicholas, don’t—please.”
The marquis had been unbuttoning his shirt, but at this he stopped to lean one arm negligently against the bed’s rail. “Why so timid, sweeting? A man expects a little more response from his lover.” He sounded glib and silky, frighteningly cordial.
I tried to raise my hand to him, I think in supplication, but I felt so weak that the gesture was barely perceptible. I felt suddenly drained of all things save a slithering, mesmerized horror at my own illness.
“Help me, please. I’m so sick.”
Suddenly, Nicholas was sitting beside me on the bed, his hands holding my shaking head still. Long, gentle fingers stroked the suffocating hair from my face.
“Elizabeth, what is it?” Then all at once he was lost in the cloaking fog and I slipped into unconsciousness.
The dearly desired oblivion was not to last long. What seemed to be only seconds later an intense light came searing through my closed eyelids. Manipulating hands tumbled me ruthlessly until a thin liquid filled every hollow of my head and ran down into my gagging throat, splashing into my windpipe. My desperate attempt to rid myself of the strangling fluid was cruelly prevented by a pulsing cramp. Convulsion followed convulsion as my tortured body sought to rid itself of the smothering poison; my blood became a pricking irritant which throttled each vein in its sluggish path. The sound of my own hysterical sobs was the last thing I heard before an explosion in my brain slammed me into blackness again.
I think I woke several times after that because I retain a dim memory of hearing low voices and once seeing Mrs. Goodbody’s frightened face bending over me. But this time when I awoke the pain had dulled to a blunt ache and the daylight came in tiny pinpoints. Memory returned slowly, as unwelcome as a summer drought. I tried to slide back into sleep but the retreat was halted by the spiteful demons of reality.
My eyes focused on the figure of Dr. Brent, who was bending solicitously over me as I lay on the bed, peering solemnly into my face. His previous flirtatious, jibing manner was partially hidden by an expression of medical concentration.
“My God, I’m so ill,” I whispered. I was gasping for a good breath as though my lungs were too weak to inflate themselves. “What have I got?”
“You have been bitten by a bug,” he said, feeling my pulse. His hand was warm on my wrist.
“A bug?” I asked numbly. “What kind of bug?”
“You have been bitten by the green-eyed jealousy bug, traveling incognito as a randy, though high-born, London strumpet. She is a good-looking baggage, nonetheless. If I did not have Medicine as my mistress…”
“Would you get to the point,” I choked out. “Or I will vomit again.” He held the pan for me.
“If only the Hippocratic oath were not my marriage vow,” he said. “There now, you must feel a bit better. You were fed too much opium in your nightcap, my dear little girl. Wine with too much of a kick.”
I laid back on the bed. “Lady Catherine gave me wine last night. Why would she do that?”
“Confidentially,” he said, wagging his eyebrows in his most annoying manner, “I have my own opinion on the reason. I arrived on the scene just when the marquis dragged her out of bed at four o’clock this morning. She says she was just giving you something to help you sleep more soundly, and that she accidentally gave you too much. There seemed to be some question as to exactly where you chose to begin your slumbers.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“She was screaming, ‘How do I know why the foolish chit ended up in Lesley’s bed. You can’t hold me responsible for that.’ Those were her exact words.” The doctor was seated on the edge of the bed now, acting like a goodwife gossiping over the back fence.
“You’ll feel better soon,” he added, patting my hand. “You were nowhere near death.”
“Thank you for telling me that,” I said. My head was throbbing. “I would not have known otherwise.”
“Poor little thing,” he said. “I regret that I must leave your side now. I sent Mrs. Goodbody out to get some rest; she was tending you devotedly for a good many hours. I will go and get her now. I myself have other patients to attend to. So just sit tight and your Mrs. Goodbody will be here in a few moments.”
He was gone. I struggled to sit up, moving my leaded limbs experimentally. After a few moments of painstaking concentration I was seated on the bed’s edge, staring dejectedly at the writhing designs of the Oriental carpet under my bare feet. Though I resisted it with all my will, the full memory of Lord Dearborne’s behavior the night before came back to me and I burned with shame. Oh, sweet life, what he must have thought at finding me in Lord Peterby’s bed! Lord, it had been obvious what he had thought. What was it that Lord Peterby had said that night he had rescued me from the London slums; that Lord Dearborne wasn’t dissolute enough to make an innocent girl his mistress. But if he believed that I wasn’t innocent… I shivered violently. His casual scorn for me made a mortifying answer to the flowering of my desperately stifled adoration for him. I knew my earlier resentment of him had been my weapon against this stupidly helpless and useless infatuation for Lord Dearborne. If only my armor had not been so weak.
And soon Mrs. Goodbody would come to me, probably frightened and confused by the strange events of the night. She would ask me questions. How could I answer them? How could I tell her what had happened? Startled into panic, I stumbled to my feet and grabbed a foolishly ruffled
peignoir from the edge of the divan. I walked unsteadily down the corridor. The Fates alone knew where I thought I was going—away was the only destination I was conscious of. Leaning heavily on the balustrade, I had navigated halfway down the main stairway when the frightened energy that had brought me this far deserted me suddenly, like an unfaithful friend. I started to fall foward, half fainting. But instead of feeling the blow of the stone steps I found myself held firmly in a comfortingly strong grip.
“Elizabeth, what in God’s name? What are you doing out of bed?”
“Oh, Kit, Kit. Don’t take me back upstairs, please.” The blood was drumming so loudly in my ears that I could hardly hear his response. The fear in my voice must have been its own message, for he carried me into the serenely sunny sitting room and set me down carefully on the satin daybed.
“My poor girl, you shouldn’t be up.”
I laughed bitterly. “I’m nowhere near death, Dr. Brent has assured me.”
Christopher sat down beside me and placed the peignoir around my shoulders. “You’ve been very sick, though. Everyone’s been up most of the night worrying about you.” He slipped an arm around my shoulders and drew me close to him. “My dear, my dear, you look so ill.”
I leaned my head back against his arm and, surprisingly, he placed a soft kiss upon my lips. Rigid with shock, I pounded my clenched fists against his chest with all my might. Et tu, Brute?
“Horrible, horrible. Y-you are just the same as the other men, wanting to seduce me… to treat me like a—a…” I stopped to swallow painfully. “I trusted you.”
Christopher looked stricken. “No, no. Upon my honor, Elizabeth, I meant no disrespect. I could never do anything to hurt you. Seeing you so pale, just… well, that was my reaction. But seduce you…? Good God, what do you mean ‘other’ men?”
So, for the second time in two days I was to soak Christopher’s jacket. Sobbing raggedly into Christopher’s impeccable lapel, I told him the full story of the previous evening in all its humiliating detail. I felt the arms that held my shoulders tighten further when I told him Dearborne’s part in it. Unburdening myself became such a relief that I went on to tell him of the night in London when I had ventured into the slums and Lord Dearborne’s reaction to that.
Christopher gave a low boyish whistle and swore under his breath. He was about to speak when Lady Catherine’s voice came fluting down the hall. She stepped into the sitting room accompanied by Lord Lesley. I could see that she had on her velvet traveling dress. Christopher’s arm left my shoulders abruptly and he made a move to stand in front of me as though to shield me from Lady Catherine.
She laughed shrilly. “It serves nothing trying to hide the chit. I care not whom she chooses to lace with.”
Christopher’s lips spared into a thin contemptuous sneer, one that I recognized only too well. No one could ever accuse Lord Dearborne of never having taught his ward anything.
“You doxy, you’re not fit to touch her feet. You should count yourself lucky that we don’t bring a charge against you for attempted murder.” I had never heard Christopher sound so hard. Lady Catherine looked away, but said flippantly:
“My, how dramatic we are today. Murder, indeed. What I did was in the wretched girl’s own behalf, had she but the wit to see it. So I drugged her and put her into Lesley’s bed, what of it? If things had gone according to plan, Lesley would have come into his room, assumed her willing and taken her. I daresay the little idiot would have liked it well enough, Lesley’s a charming lover when he wants to be. Then in the morning, Elizabeth could have gone crying to his most respectable mama, who would have made all right by forcing Lesley to marry her. Elizabeth would have been a wealthy countess; now that is falling very soft for a penniless girl without name or connections.” Lady Catherine looked up into Lord Peterby’s grim countenance and tittered, “I would hardly be doing you such an ill turn either, Lesley. Lord knows the chit is comely enough.”
Peterby’s face relaxed slightly and one corner of his mouth quirked. “I’ve heard all is fair in love and war but don’t you think you’ve carried things a trifle far, my love?”
“No!” she snapped. “I’m not to be blamed if the brat ends up as Covent Garden ware. Oh, she attracts Nicky, I’ll not deny that. I knew that even before I saw his reaction to her tediously artless play yesterday afternoon. She fascinates him, yes; with her silvery laugh and alabaster complexion.” She looked at me and her voice was low and vicious. “But you wait, my little flower, there are other beauties waiting in the wings. Your reign may be sweet, but by God, it will be short. You have managed to arouse Nicky’s jaded senses for now, but that won’t lead him to offer you anything more lasting than a carte blanche.”
I think I gave a sob, I’m not sure. Christopher’s arm came defensively around my shoulders. I saw that he was looking at the doorway. I followed his gaze and saw Lord Dearborne. He had been leaning his shoulders against the wall, but at the end of Lady Catherine’s tirade, he straightened himself and spoke softly:
“You’re wrong, Catherine. You are speaking to the lady who is going to become my wife.” I think once before I mentioned to you that I wished I could faint. Now I was convinced more strongly than ever that it is a skill that every young woman should cultivate. The room was so quiet that you could have heard a feather drop. However, what dropped was not a feather but an ornate china vase that Lady Catherine grabbed off the mantel to hurl across the room. The vase smashed against the floral papered wall, just missing a mirror by inches. In spite of myself, I found that I was glad that the vase had been of recent European origin and was not the graceful Greek amphora that stood on the teak sideboard. Lesley plucked a porcelain figurine from the top of a Japanese cabinet and handed it to Lady Catherine with a blatantly provocative smirk.
“As long as you intend to behave like a melodramatic bourgeois, then do me the favor of ridding the house of this ugly little piece.”
Lady Catherine glared at him for a moment before turning to me again. “What a pity you didn’t keep your appointment at the Cuckold’s Comfort. I was so sure that you would rise to the lure of that one,” she spat at me. I saw Lord Peterby’s eyebrows shoot up and I think my own eyes must have been as wide as saucers.
“Lady Catherine, how do you know about the Cuckold’s Comfort?”
“Because I sent you that note, you fool. I hoped that by having you come alone to the worst section of the city you might have a few… experiences that would destroy some of the naive vivacity that Nicky seems to find so enchanting. But evidently you didn’t have the nerve to go because you were at a party the very next day, as boringly innocent as ever.”
That’s all you know about it, I thought to myself. Aloud, I asked puzzledly, “But, Lady Catherine, what do you know about Henri’s murder?”
“Nothing, you little moron. You so touchingly confided in me that you were interested in the subject, so I used it as candy to draw the baby into trouble. So, you weren’t as dull-witted as I thought.”
Yes, I am. Call me dull-wit.
“Your carriage has arrived, Lady Doran.” Wadbury was standing at the doorway, as impassive as ever. I had seen Lord Peterby give an unobtrusive tug to the call bell only a few moments earlier and here was the well-trained result.
Lady Catherine, whatever else she might lack, had her fair share of audacity.
“Ah, thank you, Wadbury. Elizabeth, may I be the first to wish you happy? What an exquisite couple you and Nicky will make! I vow it will quite take one’s breath away. Lesley, I will see you when you return to London?”
Lord Peterby bent to brush his lips fleetingly across Lady Catherine’s extended hand. “Assuredly, my love. As long as you leave your boudoir unlocked.”
Lady Catherine wrenched her hand away but still kept the uneasy smile. “You were ever an outrageous creature, Lesley. Well, good day to you all, and don’t forget to give my regards to Lady Peterby for her kind hospitality.” She swept out of the room and Wadbury closed the do
or quietly behind her.
I sat very still and made a serious study of the toes of my bare feet. I felt Christopher’s arm leave my shoulders. He rose slowly to his feet.
“Uncle Nicky, you ought to be shot. I’d call you out myself except that I know you’d never accept a challenge from me. No, that would be dishonorable, wouldn’t it? The great Lord Dearborne would never stoop to dueling with his ward, but to attempt an innocent girl and as vulnerable a child as Elizabeth… That, I suppose, you think is perfectly within your rights. Do you think that buying her a few dresses gives you the right to violate her?”
Lord Dearborne had the grace to flush. “Goddammit, Kit, I didn’t violate her.”
“No, because she was violently ill. But you meant to. I would just like to know how you justify yourself. I really am curious. Is it because she’s beautiful? She’s a temptation to every man who looks at her? What do you think we should do, force her to accept any man who wants her? After all, isn’t she tempting them with her beauty?”
The marquis’s face was even whiter and his voice even more strained than Christopher’s as he said, “I don’t justify anything.”
Lord Peterby shot out a long arm and grabbed Christopher roughly. “Of course he doesn’t have to justify anything. And especially not to you. What do you know about what he feels, what he thinks? Do you think I would have let him carry Elizabeth out of my room last night if I thought he was going to hurt her? Use your head, Kit. He lost his temper for a while last night and gave the child the fright of her life. But he would never have forced her. Dammit, if you don’t know that, then you don’t know anything about him.”
Christopher tore himself abruptly from Peterby’s grip. “I don’t care. She shouldn’t have been put through an experience like that.”
Lordy Peterby nodded and grinned. “All right. Maybe not. So Nicky is a terrible guardian. On the other hand, I’m sure that he will make a charming husband.”
