The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2)

by Julia Brannan

  ***

  “Well, that seemed to have the requisite effect,” Sir Anthony observed dryly thirty seconds later, as the door closed, leaving the bride and groom alone. He was still sitting at the dressing table, and Beth observed him apprehensively. His voice betrayed no emotion, although he was trembling slightly, she noticed. In spite of his effeminate ways, he was a large man, and Beth knew she had gone too far. She had never seen him intoxicated, had no idea if alcohol made him aggressive, as it did many men.

  “I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “I had no right to say what I did.”

  He stood suddenly and turned towards her, and she shrank back instinctively.

  “Don’t worry, my dear Beth, I’m not angry with you. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

  She looked up at him in surprise and saw that he was trembling not with rage, but in an effort to control the laughter that now spilled out. It was rich and infectious, far removed from the affected titters she had heard him utter previously, and in a moment she was laughing with him.

  “I have never seen that buffoon move so fast,” he said in a strangled voice, after a time. “I knew you were a match for him, but you excelled yourself tonight, my love.” He sank down on the bed, in the spot the previous occupant had so hurriedly vacated.

  “Yes, but even so, I had no right to insult you as well and I’m sorry for that.”

  Sir Anthony waved his hand airily about in that familiar irritating gesture.

  “Oh, my dear, I am neither blind, deaf nor stupid. I know what is said about me behind my back, and I couldn’t care less about it. But I see I shall have to prove to my wife at least that the rumours are unjustified. It will be a most pleasurable task, I hope.” He looked at her, and the tension crackled between them. He showed no sign of being drunk at all now they were alone. It had all been an act, she realised, dismayed. She huddled instinctively deeper under the bedclothes.

  He reached out one gloved hand and gently stroked her cheek.

  “Do not be afraid, my dear,” he said softly. “I intend it to be a pleasurable experience for both of us. I will do my utmost to make it so.” Then he stood, and the bed creaked a little.

  “Now, if you don’t mind I will get rid of this nauseating oil and blow out some of the candles before we do indeed cause an inferno.”

  He took the lamp and moving to the window opened the shutters and threw its contents into the garden below. The sudden draught of fresh air that blew in saved him the job of extinguishing several of the candles, and he moved silently around the room, blowing out the others, until only one remained. He took this to the dressing table and commenced removing his make-up, leaving the window open until he had finished to allow the heavy cloying scent to escape.

  The fire had died down to a few embers by now and Sir Anthony had his back to her. Beth could see nothing of his face as he scrubbed at the powder and paint that adorned it. She was curious to know what he looked like, but once he had completed his ablutions, he leaned across and snuffed out the remaining candle, plunging the room into darkness. She could hear the soft rustling sounds as he removed the rest of his clothes and his wig, and then the tiny amount of starlight coming through the window was blocked out by his bulk as he closed the shutters.

  She didn’t hear him cross the room, and jumped as the bed suddenly gave beneath his weight. He lay down beside her, keeping a small distance between them, although she could feel the heat emanating from his naked body as she lay there in the pitch black. His hand reached out and clasped hers, then he lay quietly. She stiffened, expecting his fingers to creep up her arm, or for him to suddenly leap on her. Or something. He didn't move. Just when she was wondering if he had fallen asleep, he stroked the palm of her hand gently with his thumb.

  “Would you like to talk for a while?” he asked softly. “Tell me what you were expecting from tonight?”

  “I don’t know what to expect,” Beth said candidly, too tired and tense to prevaricate. “The general consensus of opinion is that it will hurt a lot, but be over in seconds.”

  Sir Anthony let out a whoop of laughter.

  “Oh God, I asked for that,” he said, giggling. She felt him move, and his voice when he spoke a moment later came from above her.

  “Let us prove the general consensus of opinion wrong,” he said. His mouth moved down to touch hers, gently. “On both counts.”

  His lips were butterfly-soft on hers, not harsh and invasive as she had imagined. They lingered for a moment, then moved to brush her eyelids, the tip of her nose, her hair. The room was so dark that when she strained to see him, curious to know what he looked like without his paint, she could see no more than a vague pale shape, and when he raised his head a few inches away from her, she could see nothing at all. She had not known such darkness since she had moved from Manchester. In London there were always lights burning somewhere nearby.

  There were advantages to this utter blackness, she realised. When Sir Anthony commenced the inevitable invasion of her body, she would be able to see not the patched and painted foppish face of her husband, but anyone she cared to conjure in her imagination. The problem being that there was no one to whom she wanted to surrender herself, no one she trusted to care for her. She did not want this, and even though last night she had agreed freely to marry him, knowing that what was about to happen was part of the package, still she resented it deeply. This was a high price to pay for freedom from her brother.

  Lost in unpleasant thoughts, she had barely noticed her husband’s caresses, and where they had now led him. His lips had made a trail of feather-light kisses down her throat and over the thin silk of her nightgown, and now he gently brushed his mouth across her breast, lingering on the softness of her nipple, which sprang suddenly to life of its own accord, jerking her from her reverie as an unfamiliar, electric tingling coursed through her, coalescing in the pit of her stomach. He murmured something, an incomprehensible endearment. His lips were warm and soft through the fine silk. One hand caressed her hair. Every move was delicate, unbearably tender. She felt her muscles slacken and her limbs start to melt, and deep inside, the slight rush of moisture as her body prepared itself automatically to receive him.

  A sudden vision filled her mind, of Richard’s lust-crazed features leaning over her, smiling as he reached up to grab for her breasts, and the melting tingling was gone, instantly replaced by blind panic.

  “No!” she cried, reaching up to push him violently backwards and throwing herself away from him. She misjudged the distance, landing heavily on the floor at the side of the bed, bruising her knees in the process.

  There was silence for a moment, broken only by the sound of Beth’s ragged breathing as she fought to control her panic.

  “Have you hurt yourself?” Sir Anthony asked. She had expected him to be angry, but his tone held only concern. Tears rushed to her eyes, and she thanked God for the darkness of the room.

  “No,” she answered in a choked voice. She sniffed, and swallowed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…I…”

  “You are very beautiful. I was too hasty,” he said, although in fact it had taken a great deal to restrain himself as he had. He wanted her, more than he had ever wanted anyone, and his body trembled with the effort of holding himself back.

  “You did nothing wrong,” she replied honestly, her voice steadier now. She got to her feet, and when she spoke again, her voice came from further away. “If you will give me a moment to compose myself, we can try again.” Soft sounds came from the corner of the room.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I thought to light a candle,” she said. “It is so dark in here, I cannot see anything.”

  “It is better that way,” he replied, and his voice had an edge to it which stopped her hand from striking flint to tinder as she had been about to do. She knew with sudden certainty that he must be horribly disfigured, and that he did not want her to see him tonight without his mask of paint. It was the least she could do for hi
m after the way she had just behaved. She replaced the tinder box on the table and hovered, uncertain as to what to do next.

  “Come back to bed,” he said softly. She hesitated. “I will not touch you, unless you wish it. Come.”

  He sensed rather than heard her move closer to the bed, until she was a faint blur of white hovering over him, unmoving. He backed off across the mattress, leaving her space to climb back into bed without having to touch him. He waited. Nothing happened.

  “If I wished to ravish you, I could,” he said finally. “I am your husband. No one would come to your rescue. The law says that you are mine, to do with as it pleases me. It will only please me to have you when you are ready and willing for me to do so, however long that may take. I swear I will not do anything until that time, however much I may wish to. Now, come to bed. You must be growing cold.”

  She came, and they lay there for a while in silence, a small distance between them as there had been earlier. She shivered slightly and he resisted the urge to embrace her and share with her the heat from his body.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. She could not bring herself to tell him why she had reacted so violently to his caresses, but she owed him an explanation of some sort. “I did not act as I did because you repulse me, Si…Anthony,” she said. “Although you are not the sort of man I thought to marry, I am not sorry that I have done so.”

  “I am pleased to hear it, my dear,” he replied, amused by her forthrightness. “That is a more promising start than some marriages have.”

  “I have had an…unpleasant experience in the past, and was reminded of it. I am sorry. It was my fault, not yours, that I reacted as I did.”

  “I see. Do you wish to tell me who was responsible for this unpleasant experience?” His voice was calm, gentle, but she was not fooled. She had revised her opinion of him since the previous night. Effeminate and foppish he might be. Afraid to shed blood he was not.

  “No. Not now,” she replied. To her own surprise her hand reached across the gap between them, touching his tentatively. The long fingers curled around hers, comforting, protective. “I am still virgin,” she said. “He did not…it…” her voice faltered away into silence. They lay, the tentative link between them maintained.

  He had not expected her to speak of it again, and when she did he jumped slightly, not only at the sound, but at the tone of her voice, which was suddenly cold and hard.

  “I defended myself,” she said. “It will not happen again.”

  His whole body stiffened at these words as a horrible suspicion formed in his mind, and it took all his willpower to force it to relax, to soften the rigid muscles, to lie as though at rest.

  “No,” he said softly. “It will not. I will defend you from others now, and you have no need to defend yourself from me. I wish to be your friend, at least, but I cannot be that while you are afraid of me.”

  Was she afraid of him? She had not thought of it like that before. She did not see how anyone could be afraid of Sir Anthony Peters! Yet Daniel had feared him yesterday. And she had not leapt from the bed earlier in anger, but in terror of what he might do to her against her will. She had been afraid of him, she realised.

  “I am not afraid of you,” she said tightly, and realised as she said it that at this moment it was true. He was a gentleman. He had sworn not to touch her until she wished it, and she trusted that he would keep his word. Her hand relaxed in his, and he smiled in the darkness.

  “Good. Then let us sleep, and tomorrow we will see if we can start to be friends.”

  He let go of her hand then. She thought he meant to turn away from her, and perversely, felt strangely bereft. Then she felt his arm slide under her, lifting the heavy mass of her hair and pillowing her head in the crook of his arm. She rested there, and after a time, when he showed no sign of making any further move toward her, she relaxed and closed her eyes.

  It took her a long time to go to sleep, but he knew when she finally succumbed, because she turned then instinctively into his comforting warmth, throwing a slender arm across his chest, murmuring softly as she snuggled in to him. He settled her closer to him, his arm cradling her, her head resting on his shoulder, and inhaled the sweet perfume of her hair. Then he lay sleepless, staring unseeing at the canopy of the bed and feeling the soft warmth of her breath against his neck as she slept.

  He realised that his first instinct regarding the identity of her assailant could not be correct. It is not possible, he thought. She had told him that her hatred for Richard stemmed from his regarding her as a commodity. She had been besieged by potential suitors in the past months. Any one of them might have pressed his attentions a little too hard and passed beyond the bounds of propriety. He would believe her, he decided, both in her reasons for hating her brother and in her assertion that whatever damage her assailant had done, he had not deflowered her. Until she trusted him enough to confide in him, which he doubted she ever would, he could not act. He tried to empty his mind unsuccessfully for a time, then, realising that sleep would be a stranger to him tonight, he arose carefully so as not to disturb his bride, and opening the shutters, stood for a long time in silence, staring out into the darkness, listening to the muffled wheels of the night-soil cart as it went about its business in the dead hours, the subdued voices of the men doing nothing to allay his solitary mood as they went about their unenviable task.

  * * *

  When Beth awoke some three hours later, a thin grey early morning light filled the room. Sir Anthony was sitting at the dressing table, already clad in shirt and yellow breeches, his stockings gartered, his wig freshly powdered. As she stirred he turned towards her, and any hopes she had entertained that today she would awaken to finally see the face of the man she had married were dashed. He had obviously been awake for some time. His usual mask of white paint was in place, two spots of rouge sitting high on his cheekbones. A star-shaped patch adorned the corner of his mouth, and one eyebrow was pencilled in a high black arch, giving him a slightly startled look.

  “Good morning, dearest wife!” he trilled. “I trust I did not wake you whilst performing my ablutions? I did endeavour to dress myself in silence.”

  For a moment she wondered if somehow Sir Anthony, after blowing out the candle last night, had stealthily left the room, allowing another, kind, considerate, masculine man to take his place in her bed, only returning when the first cock crowed. When she was a child, her mother had told her stories of handsome princes laid under enchantments, who only appeared in their real form at night, transforming back into frogs or misshapen beasts by day. She smiled to herself, and her husband, attributing her happiness no doubt to her newly married state, beamed back at her.

  “What time is it?” she asked, stretching drowsily. She had not slept until about two a.m., and was still very tired.

  “Not yet six of the clock,” he replied. “If you allow me a moment to finish dressing, I will leave you in peace to sleep a little longer if you wish. I would advise it. Your cousins have a day and evening packed full of amusements planned for us. If you are to show the requisite enthusiasm their labours deserve, I would suggest that you try to snatch a few hours more repose. I will send Sarah up to attend you at nine.”

  He turned back to the mirror, and picking up a small pot and a fine stick, proceeded to pencil in his other eyebrow. She watched him from the bed. No, he is no enchanted prince, she thought. Although she had not had a great deal of contact with him last night, the hand enfolding hers had been large and strong and the arm beneath her head had been no slender twig; she had felt his bicep flex as she had pillowed her head on his arm. She looked at him now as if for the first time, as he sat at the table, and saw the powerful set of his shoulders, tapering down to a slender waist and long, strong legs. His posing, fluttery affectation, ridiculous clothes and make-up, combined with his high-pitched voice and flowery speech, all detracted from the fact that he was really a tall, well-built young man. Young? Was he?

  His make-up comp
leted to his satisfaction, the object of her attention now stood and put on his waistcoat of primrose silk and his coat of rich burgundy velvet, fussily pulling the lace out of the cuffs and arranging it carefully over his wrists.

  “There!” he said, pirouetting daintily on one toe before looking expectantly down at her. “What do you think?” His coat skirt flared around him before settling into perfect folds. At least the tailoring of his hideous outfits was excellent. He smiled, his eyes betraying a tenderness that caught suddenly at her heart.

  “Exquisite,” she said, smiling back at him with genuine warmth. His smile widened and he bent over her, planting a kiss on her forehead. Then he turned to leave. She watched him as he minced across the room.

  “How old are you?” she asked impulsively. He hesitated, his hand on the door handle.

  “The eldest, and in fact only son of Sir John Peters and his wife Anna made his first entrance into the world in 1713, my dear,” he replied verbosely. “Why do you ask?”

  Thirty, then. Or twenty-nine, if his birthday was late in the year.

  “I have realised, we are married, and I know so little about you. I know only your public face,” she said. “I want to know more about you.”

  He cocked his head slightly to one side and surveyed her for a moment, his eyes suddenly serious.

  “Let us endure this day, my dear. I have already told Isabella that we will not sleep here tonight, in spite of her protestations. I intend for us to spend a few days together at my house before we embark for Europe, so that we can get to know each other better. I will tell you anything you wish to know then. Does that satisfy you?”

  “Will you even show me your face, unpainted?” she asked, then blushed. If he was disfigured by smallpox, as she was certain he was, it was up to him, not her, to choose the moment when he felt he could reveal his scarring. He had not pressured her to reveal the name of her assailant last night. She had no right to pressure him to reveal that which he wished to conceal. She opened her mouth to apologise, but he spoke before she could.