by Brenda Novak
He was nearly clear of the portal when her voice rose behind him. “If you must know, he was the stable master. William was in America for nearly two years, and I enjoyed the attentions of our stable master. He had a fine physique, he was kind, and he was loyal to a fault, even if he wasn’t always right in the head.”
He whipped around to face her. “You’re lying.”
“Am I? William didn’t return when he said he would, not soon enough to claim you were legitimate. I had no choice but to give you up. Certainly even you can see that. Are you happy now, my dear?”
Treynor felt as though someone had opened a trap door beneath him. He’d waited his whole life to learn that he was the spawn of a man who’d started having fits and eventually lost his mind?
Once again, his mother had drawn blood. Whether she spoke the truth or a lie didn’t matter. Her mocking words proved how little she cared about him.
His hands curled into fists as he fought to tamp down the pain he couldn’t believe he still felt. “Good night,” he managed through clenched teeth.
A shrill laugh answered him, one that echoed off the walls as he closed the door.
Chapter 2
The ball was every bit as lavish as Jeannette had expected. A tantalizing display of elaborate fare rested on dark, walnut tables. Servants shuttled to and from the kitchen, carrying empty platters or returning with full ones. A fountain held court in the center of the room, spewing champagne from the heads of silver gargoyles. And sprays of fresh-cut flowers adorned every open space and the center of each table, overwhelming the perfume and perspiration of the bodies packed inside until the air smelled more like a funeral than a wedding.
Although Jeannette cared little for such a show of pomp and grandeur, her parents seemed to enjoy it. It was no more than what they’d been accustomed to. For her own part, she could only wait nervously for the hour of doom: the moment, fast approaching, when her husband would lead her away to their bridal chamber.
Maman had attempted to explain all that was expected of a wife. But the few ambiguous kernels of knowledge she had imparted did nothing to quell Jeannette’s fear. Duty, patience, and long-suffering had much to do with her mother’s message, rather than what, specifically, a bride was supposed to do. Jeannette had never experienced so much as a passion-filled kiss. The idea of allowing Percival Borden complete access to her body was beyond repulsive. Just the thought of what he might look like without his clothes made her ill.
Yet tolerate him she must. Think of what it will mean for my family….
It was growing late and the guests were starting to leave. Those who remained seemed singularly determined to make the revelry last as long as possible, and for that Jeannette was grateful. Drunken voices tripped over words, creating a steady chorus punctuated by an occasional staccato laugh. Men gorged themselves on what was left of the food and wiped their mouths with their sleeves while those who danced wobbled beneath the effects of the champagne.
Lord St. Ives had brought Jeannette a glass when they first arrived, then spent the remainder of his time with his friends—political allies, her father attempted to explain when it began to appear strange that his son-in-law would abandon her so easily. But Jeannette didn’t mind. She had no more desire for St. Ives’s company than for a cobra in her bed.
The English gentry and lords and ladies that had surrounded her for most of the evening appeared more formal than their French counterparts, but in Jeannette’s eyes they were not so different. As the daughter of a count, she had grown up in aristocratic circles. The bloodlines of France and England were so intertwined that one could scarcely stand without the other. But English sympathy for the plight of titled yet homeless Parisian refugees probably had more to do with fear than with loyalty. The seeds of revolution had been sown so close to home, no one really knew what might be reaped—or when such harvest would come.
“Have you been enjoying yourself, ma petite?”
She looked up to see her mother studying her with worry-filled eyes.
“You look pale. Es-tu malade?”
Jeannette glanced around the room, searching for her husband in his brass-buttoned coat, shiny blue-and-gold breeches, light blue stockings, and black, buckled shoes. Despite his lack of height, he was easy to spot because of his conspicuous apparel. “Just a headache,” she admitted with her best imitation of a smile. “It must be nerves. A girl does not marry every day.”
“A girl does not marry so well every day,” her mother reminded her, going along with Jeannette’s attempt to be cheerful. “But if it is your wifely duties you fear, do not worry. It will all be over quickly enough. The baron is a childless widower. No doubt he will leave you to yourself once you conceive, eh?”
Inwardly alarmed by her mother’s words, Jeannette nodded. Of course the baron would want an heir, but the thought of bearing his babe was as abhorrent as the notion of lying with him in the first place.
“Give him sons, and he will be generous with you your whole life.”
“I can only pray that I am so favored by God,” Jeannette whispered.
A man wearing a dark green waistcoat, white ruff shirt, and black coat approached. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said. “I am Sir Thomas Villard, a close personal friend of your husband.”
“Enchantée de faire votre connaissance.” Jeannette allowed him to take and kiss her hand.
“My pleasure, I assure you.” His warm fingers clasped hers a moment longer than necessary as calculating eyes, eyes that very nearly matched his coat, probed hers. “May I bring you another drink? Your hands are cold.”
Jeannette pasted a fresh smile on her face. Thomas Villard was no young man. He had to be approaching forty, but he possessed interesting features. Thick, dark eyebrows arched above deep-set eyes in a thin face that would have been mildly attractive if not for his hawkish nose. “Merci, no. Perhaps I am not yet accustomed to the weather here. And this hall bears such a draft.”
He glanced at the enormous room with its high ceilings and great, dangling chandeliers. “So it does.” Turning to her mother, he bowed over her hand. “May I compliment you on the beauty of your daughter? And her impeccable English?”
Rose Marie beamed. “Merci, monsieur. And may I ask how you know the baron?”
“I am a frequent visitor at Hawthorne House. You might say I am like family.”
Before he could elaborate, another gentleman approached, holding a brandy in one hand. “I should have known I would find you flirting with the bride, Thomas,” he boomed with a boisterous laugh. “Take pity on your poor brother and introduce me.”
Thomas Villard sniffed, dabbed a handkerchief to his great nose, and complied—but with obvious reluctance. “Lady Lumfere, Lady St. Ives, may I present Richard Manville, my younger brother.”
“Sired by different fathers,” Richard clarified, which explained more than the difference in their names. While Thomas was tall, angular, and cleanshaven, Richard was husky with a barrel chest, bearlike hands, and a full beard.
“You are both from Cornwall, yes?” Jeannette sensed a certain tension between the two brothers.
“Richard lives in Liskeard. I prefer London, for the most part.” Sir Thomas seemed to forget his irritation as his gaze lingered on her once again. “I find country life a bit dull at times, although the baron occasionally entertains, which goes far toward breaking the monotony.”
“The way the baron entertains would certainly do that,” Richard added and finished his drink. “Myself, I prefer a more …conventional existence.” He winked at Jeannette and set his glass on the tray of a passing servant.
“Isn’t your wife waiting to leave?” Thomas asked.
This pointed question met with another booming laugh. “Don’t worry,” Richard told him. “I’ll not give away your little surprise.” Lifting an unlit pipe to his lips, he tilted his head in acknowledgment of the women. “Sleep well tonight, ladies,” he said and swaggered off, presumably to find his impatient w
ife.
Sir Thomas watched his brother go. “Bit of a lout, isn’t he?”
Jeannette said nothing. Richard did seem coarse, but she was more concerned with his words than his manner. What had he meant by I’ll not give away your little surprise?
“I see you have met Sir Thomas, my dear.”
St. Ives’s voice at her elbow caused Jeannette to turn in surprise—and to cringe when she found him standing so close. “Oui, and his brother Richard.”
The baron chuckled. “Ah, yes, Richard. He is gone now, I believe.”
“And none too soon,” Thomas added dryly.
“Did he have much to say?” the baron asked.
“Non, milord.” Her mother answered before she could. “He was anxious to see to the comfort of his wife.”
“He forgets himself too easily.” Sir Thomas scanned the room once again. “Has our friend Desmond arrived? He is so late now he has all but missed the festivities.”
“He is by the door—and looking splendid, I must say,” St. Ives responded.
Jeannette followed the line of her husband’s gaze to a tall blond man speaking to a group of older gentlemen. Wearing clothes that were almost as extravagant as St. Ives’s—a dark red suitcoat with gold stitching over a shiny, gold waistcoast—he wasn’t difficult to spot.
As if he could sense their attention, he looked up and met Jeannette’s gaze.
“Handsome devil, is he not?” the baron prompted.
“It is difficult to tell at this distance,” Jeannette replied when she realized her husband was talking to her. But the way the other man carried himself reminded her of a strutting peacock, fanning its feathers for all to admire.
St. Ives laughed. “Perhaps you will agree after you have had the chance to get to know him.”
The confusion caused by Richards’s strange words cut deeper, but the baron’s expression revealed nothing of his thoughts and his next question distracted her. “You must be exhausted. Are you ready to retire?”
Jeannette grappled with her failing nerve. “If you will please allow me a moment, my lord,” she replied. “I must bid my parents farewell.”
“Agatha waits to take you upstairs to your chamber.” He indicated a prune-faced maid standing patiently at the bottom of a grand stairway. “I will be up after you have had time to change. Come, Thomas. Shall we greet Desmond?”
Blood rushed into Jeannette’s cheeks as Thomas Villard’s gaze raked over her once more. By the salacious glint in his eye, she suspected he imagined all that would happen between her and the baron in the next hour. She could tell that it aroused him.
She reached for the comfort of her mother’s hand as St. Ives pulled Villard away.
“The time has come, ma mère.” She struggled to mask the nervousness in her voice as she watched the baron move through the remaining dancers.
Rose Marie patted her arm. “He does not rush you. He is a kind man, no?”
Jeannette couldn’t bring herself to formulate an answer that would have no scrap of truth or enthusiasm, so she changed the subject. “Tell me, what did you think of Villard’s brother?”
“Richard Manville?” Doubt clouded her mother’s expression. “He seems strange…. But he was deep in his cups.”
Her mother was right, of course. What did she expect from a drunken, ill-mannered Englishman? She was simply grasping at anything with the power to divert her mind from the very near future. “Of course.”
Rose Marie leaned in. “Are you too frightened to go through with this, ma petite?”
“No!” The word came out overly loud; Jeannette feared her mother noted it.
“Alors,” her mother sighed. “The baron is far too old for you. I told you when he offered for your hand that I would rather see you with—”
“A young handsome man? Maman, a woman with no dowry cannot pick and choose. We could not afford to turn the baron away. And Papa’s own cousin, Lord Darby, found him to be a worthy suitor, n’est-ce pas? Darby is a powerful man here in England. We can trust him.”
“But you are our only daughter. I could not bear it if—”
“Maman,” she interrupted again. “‘Tis too late. I belong to the baron.”
“Of course.” Forgetting her earlier display of optimism, her mother fell silent for several seconds. Then, she said, “I pray for your happiness, my child.”
Jeannette nodded. “I know. Where is Papa? I must hurry.”
“Je ne sais pas. I have not seen him for half the night. This has been a difficult thing for him, ma petite, to see his only daughter wed to a foreigner.”
“Tell him to think of it as an end to our uncertainty over the future,” Jeannette told her. “We could have fared much worse in our predicament.” She eyed the crowd again, but her father was nowhere to be seen. Even Henri had disappeared, which was just as well. She never could have fooled her brother into thinking she was satisfied with her situation and knew her unhappiness would pain him.
“Give my love to Papa—”
Rose Marie’s hand latched onto her arm. “Stay. Another few minutes won’t make any difference.”
Jeannette noticed Lord St. Ives watching her. “I must go. I do not wish to appear reluctant.”
“Of course.” Her mother released her as the heavy doors of the house banged shut on the heels of some departing guests. The tomblike sound filled Jeannette with dread. Yet, forcing herself to turn away, she moved toward the waiting maid and mounted the curving staircase, saying a silent good-bye to her youth.
* * *
Agatha had a bath waiting. Jeannette allowed the maid to assist her with undressing, then sank into the warm water. Even the thought of what lay ahead couldn’t silence the contented sigh that issued from her lips as she stretched out. The bath was unusually large, a welcome luxury. She nodded to the maid, who picked up a cake of perfumed soap to wash her as Jeannette extended a dripping leg out of the water.
That, at least, was fair and white. Despite being an only daughter, or possibly because of it, Jeannette had spent much of her time at her family’s country estate, riding or roaming the hillsides. Outdoor exercise had left her body a little too lean, perhaps, and the sun had made her complexion slightly darker than the pallor so sought after by most females, but she wasn’t one to worry about such details.
The maid’s touch eased her headache, but did little to stop her troubled thoughts from returning to the ball.
Richard Manville was a strange one. Drunk or no, his words made her uneasy. And there was something mysterious about Sir Thomas Villard. Possibly that Desmond fellow, as well. With their knowing glances and sly smiles, her husband and his friends behaved as though they shared a great secret, or a joke of some sort.
“Does Sir Thomas visit Hawthorne House very often?” she asked the maid.
Agatha’s hands stilled on her shoulders. “No, milady. The master brought ‘im ‘ome for the first time only a week ago.”
“What?” Jeannette nearly sloshed water over the sides of the tub as she twisted around. “But I thought Sir Thomas and my husband have been close friends for some time. He said he is like family!” She knew her husband’s servant might hesitate to comment, but Sir Thomas had left her unsettled enough she couldn’t help pressing for what information she could get.
The maid began to wring her hands. “Well, per’aps so. I am just a lowly servant, after all. I don’t rightly know the master’s business—”
“But you do know who visits here, no?” Jeannette reached out to still the woman’s agitated movements. “What is it? Is something wrong?”
“No, milady.” The maid’s round eyes did nothing to convince Jeannette, but there was little she could do to persuade her to speak against her will.
“Tell me something. How long have you been at Hawthorne House?” Jeannette hoped another tack might get Agatha to open up.
The maid readjusted a bone hairpin to keep Jeannette’s hair from falling into the water. “Twenty years next month, milady.
”
“Do you like it here?”
Several drops of water ran off her hands and plinked in the bath before she answered. “It keeps a roof over me ‘ead,” she said at last.
“And my husband, he is kind?”
From the corner of her eye, Jeannette saw Agatha throw a glance at the door.
“Per’aps we should dry ye off now.”
Not really an answer. The maid’s lack of a response did not bode well.
Agatha waited with a large towel. Jeannette rose, letting the water run off her body in rivulets. Her husband would arrive any minute; she didn’t want him to catch her in the bath. Perhaps if she’d finished her toilette, he’d put out the lamps before he took her virginity.
She shuddered.
“Are ye cold, milady?”
The room was so hot that the maid’s face flushed to a bright red while she toweled Jeannette off. A giant fire roared beneath a baroque mantel along one wall, eliminating any hint of the cold drizzle that had begun to fall outside. Still, Jeannette could hardly admit the true reason for her quaking limbs. “A bit,” she lied. “I will be warm enough when dressed.”
“Aye, and there’s a warmin’ pan in yer bed.”
“Merci.”
Jeannette allowed Agatha to help her don the filmy negligee that had been a gift from her mother, then stared, disconcerted, at the high, heavily carved bed, with its rich gold trappings.
Unfortunately, her headache was back and rising to new dimensions by the time her hair fell, brushed and gleaming, to her waist. Gazing into a cheval glass, she almost didn’t recognize the pale face staring back at her.
“Shall I let Lord St. Ives know that you are ready?” Agatha’s solemn eyes met Jeannette’s reflection.
Jeannette nodded. She had no choice. She felt like a fox cornered by baying hounds. It didn’t help that those hounds were the urging of her own conscience.
The maid closed the door as she left, leaving Jeannette to wait and to pace, her mouth so dry she could scarcely swallow. Tears burned behind her eyes and, despite the fire, her hands remained as stiff and cold as a cadaver’s. At least her family’s future was now secure, she told herself. Everything was decided, done. The trade had been made when she and the baron exchanged vows. She had only to finish her part of the bargain.
