Miss Cameron's Fall from Grace

by Helen Dickson

  They rode home in silence, a silence that pierced Delphine’s heart. She told herself that it didn’t matter, that there had been no love between them when they married. But if so, why did the images of him with another woman cause her such agony? Why did the thought of him kissing this other woman tear her heart in two? Why did the thought of them in bed together fill her with an empty loneliness and despair that made her feel as if she wanted to die?

  * * *

  The house Mr Oakley had arranged for them to rent during their time in London belonged to Sir John Kiligrew, a widower, who held an important position with the East India Company and was currently in India. Conveniently placed in the heart of Mayfair, the house was white with ornamental wrought-iron gates at the front. Inside, it displayed an awe-inspiring opulence reflecting Sir John’s personal tastes. It was fully staffed and ready to receive them, and just a few streets away from Delphine’s parents.

  It was late when they arrived. After Delphine had settled a sleepy Lowenna in the nursery, her nursemaid in the next room, she was too tired to eat and retired to bed.

  Stephen went to one of the exclusive gentlemen’s clubs in St James’s that he habitually frequented when in London. After catching up with friends over a few brandies and engaging in a game of cards, he returned to his lonely bed in the rented house.

  He and Delphine had been virtual strangers since that day at the Saracen’s Head. During the uneventful journey to London, the strained atmosphere between them had relaxed somewhat. It seemed to Delphine that perhaps if they both made the effort to be civilised to one another, the following days could be endured without too much acrimony—even with a degree of common courtesy—as long as he didn’t attempt to get too close. She didn’t trust herself around her husband, and that, she knew, rather than anger, was at the root of her resistance.

  * * *

  The day following their arrival, Delphine settled into their new quarters and took Lowenna to visit her parents in the afternoon. Their delight on seeing her surprised her; they accepted her explanation that Stephen had gone to Woolwich to settle some military matters and was not expected back until the following day.

  Rose had given birth to a son, Thomas, who was three months old, and Fern was enceinte. Both her sisters looked blooming and were full of their usual empty chatter. Lowenna immediately wanted to see the nursery, which had housed two generations of Cameron children, and Thomas’s nursemaid was happy to oblige her. The moment they were gone, Delphine asked Fern how she liked living in Hertfordshire and her sister went into raptures about the magnificent house she lived in and its many luxuries, and the grand estate owned by her aristocratic husband, Viscount Falkener.

  Delphine had been introduced to the young man before her own marriage; in her opinion the viscount was a weak, rather uninteresting—though good-natured—individual with curls the colour of golden guineas and a high colour in his cheeks. It was clear that Fern could command him to any whim or fancy she thought up. As long as he was allowed to shoot and fish and hunt in season, he was content to allow his pretty young wife to do exactly as she pleased.

  * * *

  As Delphine was driven home from the visit, an excited Lowenna chattering on about all the toys she’d been allowed to play with in the nursery and the beautiful baby asleep in the crib, she asked herself if she would exchange her compellingly vigorous, exacting, exciting and incredibly handsome husband for the easy-going young viscount to whom Fern was married.

  No, she would not! Despite the strained and often intolerable atmosphere that existed between them, she knew she would not. Her husband was a complex man, a strong man who allowed few to see the real Stephen Fitzwaring, and as a consequence she could honestly say she did not know him very well at all. When they’d met he had made love to her with such passion he could not have faked it. But she did not fool herself into believing he could possibly have had feelings for her since he’d had no idea who she was, and when lying beside a willing female body of personable appearance, any man would make love to her regardless of feelings.

  Stephen was a man with his feet planted firmly on the ground of reality and she knew now that her life would be empty without him. They had lived as man and wife for such a short time, yet she could not bear the pain if they should part. She did not know how she was going to get through the empty days ahead, but somehow she would find a way. She would have to be circumspect; the reason for this was buried deep inside her where even she had not dared to look too closely, concerning the feeling she had for her own husband. It was something hidden, something deep, too deep to have a name, but it had awoken and stirred on the night before Stephen had gone to Spain, and increased a thousandfold since he had come home. It had blazed into life, burning her, scorching her and she didn’t know what to do with it, or about it.

  Remembering the times when they had lain together, when she had pressed herself wordlessly against him, wrapped her long legs about him, welcoming his warm mouth, deliciously sweet on her tongue, his hard body capturing hers, his kisses on her mouth, her neck, her ears, racing her and himself towards an explosion of pleasure that left them both breathless with the joy of it, she desperately wanted to experience it once more.

  Despite the bitter words they exchanged, there were times when she knew he wanted her. She saw it in his eyes when he looked at her, in his expression, and she so wanted to relent, to set aside her jealous feelings for this other woman, for him to take her in his arms and hold her fast. She supposed she was feeling self-pitying, but she was tired of it, tired of the awful half-life she led, and knew that if she wanted to make her marriage happy and solid, she must do something about it.

  Instead of withholding herself, perhaps she should do the opposite. It was up to her to make him want her more than he had ever wanted any other woman. Did she have the power to make him forget the Spanish woman? Did she have the power to hold him so that he would never want to leave her?

  * * *

  The following day had been spent amusing Lowenna, and Delphine had been in bed when Stephen returned, so they did not meet until the next morning. They encountered each other in the hall. He had just returned from an early ride in the park and Delphine was on her way out, having ordered the carriage to take her to the orphanage. She had hoped to be gone before he returned to avoid a confrontation about where she was going, but it was not to be.

  Taken unawares, she paused in the act of putting on her gloves. ‘Stephen, you’re home.’

  His eyes were drawn to the sound of her voice. He looked at her, expecting defiance, that head-held-high hauteur she flaunted whenever she thought she was in the right, but today there was a slight droop to her shoulders and a brooding sadness in her eyes. His heart was moved to something he knew was not pity and he wanted to ask her what the matter was, but when he saw her straighten her shoulders and raise her chin, he silenced his enquiry.

  ‘As you see.’

  Striding into the hall, he threw his top hat on the table and drew off his gloves, tossing them on the table as well. He proceeded to take off his excellently tailored riding coat and draped it over a chair, shrugging the tension out of his wide shoulders. Delphine felt her gaze travel over the sinuous curve of his strong back. His snug waistcoat accentuated the sweeping breadth of his shoulders and the tapered leanness of his waist and hips.

  ‘H-have you enjoyed your ride?’

  ‘I have—although give me the countryside and the cliffs of Cornwall to ride over any day. It’s a fine day though. You should be out of doors.’

  ‘Yes, I would like that.’

  He ran his eye over her plainer-than-usual day dress and the little hat perched atop her neatly coiffured hair. Giving her a pointed look, he said, ‘You’re going out.’

  ‘Yes—I was just…’

  ‘Yes?’ His tone was sharp, his eyes penetrating as they fast
ened to her face. ‘If you are going to visit your parents, I shall get changed and accompany you. I suppose I shall have to confront your father sooner or later.’

  ‘I am not going to see my parents today. I visited them while you were at Woolwich and I shall go again tomorrow. I—thought I might pay Aunt Celia a call,’ she said tentatively.

  The true nature of her visit to Aunt Celia didn’t register with Stephen immediately. ‘Pity. I thought I would take you shopping—or perhaps we could take Lowenna on a picnic to Hampstead Heath. It would be nice for the three of us to go on an outing together.’

  Delphine’s heart warmed at the thought that her husband wished to spend some time with her and Lowenna and she broke into a smile. ‘I would like that—and I know I can speak for our daughter. A picnic would be nice before the weather turns too cold.’ She looked into Stephen’s face, a face that smiled with satisfaction, for it seemed she was willing to allow him to do something for her.

  With an inner resignation he finally faced the fact that he could no longer ignore: the throbbing desire he felt for her was as insistent as ever. She had struggled for two years to make Tamara a home, had borne him a child. It would give him immense delight to do something for her, to shower her with all the things his wife deserved, all the things he thought she should have and wanted her to have. He would even visit her parents and put the hostility he still felt towards her father behind him.

  But he did not care for the new expression on her face. It was an expression he did not like; she looked perturbed and impatient.

  ‘What is it, Delphine? Is something I said not to your liking?’ he asked as he crossed to the stairs.

  His voice was harsh with disappointment. Just when he thought that everything would come right between them now that they were in London where he could spoil her, she had turned truculent and he couldn’t see why.

  ‘No—not at all—but…’

  At the bottom of the stairs he stopped and slowly turned to face her, his expression unreadable. ‘But what?’ Suddenly his look became suspicious. ‘Aunt Celia, you said? That wouldn’t be the same Aunt Celia who runs the orphanage, by any chance?’

  Her spirits sank, for if he knew the true reason of her outing, she thought that he might forbid her to go. Although perhaps she was being too harsh on him, for Stephen had never expressed any objection to her charity work.

  ‘Why—yes, it is. I thought I would go over there to see how things are, that’s all.’

  ‘Why do you not invite your aunt here? Then she can give you an update as to how things are at the orphanage and see Lowenna at the same time. We are in London for such a short period, I would like us to spend the most part of it together as a family. I shall make a donation to the orphanage, if that sets your mind at rest, but there is hardly time for you to resume working there before we have to return to Cornwall.’

  ‘Please do not forbid me to go. I don’t intend being long. Perhaps we could have the picnic this afternoon. I’ll ask the housekeeper to prepare us a picnic basket, if you like.’ She said it pleadingly, hoping he wasn’t about to argue.

  Stephen didn’t, for when her eyes gazed at him so large, soft and pleading, the protective tenderness in which he longed to enfold her burned within him and he didn’t give a damn what she wanted, if only she would go on looking at him like that. But he wasn’t to be taken in so easily.

  He closed the space between them, looking down at her darkly. ‘And if I did forbid you to go?’

  She stiffened, the softness melting from her eyes. ‘I hope you won’t.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘I would have to disobey you,’ she answered quietly, looking at him directly. She would never respect herself if she cowered before him. ‘I will not be intimidated by you, Stephen.’

  His dark eyes narrowed to slits of wrathful warning. ‘It is not my intention to intimidate you. Quite the opposite, in fact.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Quickly she finished pulling on her gloves and straightened her hat. ‘I cannot understand your objection to my visiting my aunt.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  No, she thought, to be fair to him he hadn’t. ‘I shall return forthwith, I promise. A footman will accompany me, along with the driver, so I will be quite safe, if that’s what worries you.’

  Knowing how much this meant to her and seeing no reason to deny her, he nodded, although he was apprehensive, for he would never forget the harm that had befallen her at his own hands the last time she had been in the vicinity of Water Lane.

  * * *

  Leaving the safety of the well-populated Covent Garden, the carriage entered the shadowy labyrinth of airless narrow streets and alleyways. The familiar stench from the reeking gutters in this twilight world was overpowering and touched like cold fingers upon Delphine’s deepest fears. It was the stench of poverty—the foul, unacceptable smell of humanity at its lowest.

  The alley opened out into the more hospitable Water Lane, a congested thoroughfare through which the driver expertly manoeuvred the carriage, passing a jumble of vehicles, animals and pedestrians. As they passed the Blue Boar, Delphine’s eyes were drawn reluctantly to the building where she had lost her virginity; she gazed at it for a moment, remembering what had taken place there. The memories of her own wanton behaviour made her face burn, for it was the shame of this wantonness that had been at the root of her resistance to her husband since his return from Spain.

  When the carriage stopped at the bottom of the steep steps leading up to the orphanage door, she climbed out.

  ‘I shan’t be long. Half an hour at the most,’ she told the footman, who was uneasy about taking his mistress to such a place abounding, as it did, with every kind of miscreant imaginable.

  Pausing to look around before she climbed the steps, her eyes lighted on a man slouched against the wall of the orphanage. His hat was pulled down over his face, concealing his features, but there was something familiar about him. A sense of foreboding stole over her. As if sensing her scrutiny, he lifted his face in her direction, and although Delphine could not see his features, she felt his stare. There was a stillness about him that was entirely menacing. And then, when their eyes met in chilly recognition, she felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck.

  Shoving himself away from the wall, he swaggered towards her. Stopping in front of her, he casually tipped his hat back on his untidy fair hair and grinned. With the certainty that he was savouring the moment, Delphine’s sense of foreboding grew.

  ‘Well, well,’ he grinned, his voice mocking. ‘So we meet again. If it isn’t Miss Cameron—or should I say Lady Fitzwaring? Very grand, I’m sure! Come to hobnob with the beggars in your fancy clothes, I see. It’s been a long time.’

  ‘Not long enough where you are concerned, Will Kelly,’ she returned, her voice as hostile as her manner.

  She turned away with the intention of climbing the steps, but he moved forwards, barring her path. Their combined movements brought them close together. He stared at her with impudent admiration, his gaze travelling insolently over her body, lingering on the swell of her breasts. She felt sick and more than a little afraid of this repulsive man, but her anger and indignation were much stronger.

  ‘Be so kind as to step aside.’

  ‘I’ll be happy to—for the price of a kiss from your luscious lips.’

  ‘I’d as soon kiss a rattlesnake. Move out of my way.’

  Out of the corner of his eye Will saw the footman climbing down from the coach. Reluctantly he stepped aside.

  Delphine swept by him and, raising her skirts, climbed up to the door.

  Chapter Eight

  Life inside the orphanage had evidently carried on just as before. The only difference was that more children were crammed inside, most of them scrawny, stunt
ed and bowed from malnutrition. Little faces looked at her curiously. She was touched to find some of the children still remembered her.

  Her Aunt Celia had spent most of her life in Water Lane. Delphine noticed how tired her aunt looked as she came down the wooden stairs, carrying a small child, whom she handed to one of the older girls. The flesh had left her aunt’s slender frame and her face was contorted with a permanent anxiety, but she greeted her niece warmly.

  ‘My dear Delphine.’ She smiled, holding out both her hands. ‘I am truly delighted to see you again.’

  ‘And I am happy to be here.’

  ‘How pretty you look,’ her aunt murmured approvingly, looking Delphine up and down and marvelling at the pink softness of her niece’s complexion. ‘Married life and motherhood must agree with you.’

  ‘Yes—although Stephen has only recently returned from Spain, as you know. Lowenna, our daughter, is such a treasure—you must come to the house and see her.’

  ‘I will do that, I promise.’

  Delphine sighed, looking around her. ‘It’s been so long since I left, Aunt Celia, but I’ve thought about you and the orphanage constantly. How are you?’

  ‘Not without my little discomforts,’ the older woman replied, gently ushering two small boys out of their path, ‘but I am well enough. Nothing has changed at the orphanage—except that we are hopelessly overcrowded. So many of the abandoned children who come here are either ill or have been ill treated. There is always so much to be done.’

  ‘How I wish I could help. Cornwall is so far away—and I am in London for such a short time.’