by Mia Vincy
“Ah, I have shocked you, Miss Larke,” Sculthorpe said.
Arabella turned. Shocked, am I? she didn’t say. Do tell me what I am feeling. You seem to know it so well.
He offered the glass of lemonade, so Arabella took it and sipped. It was unpleasantly weak and tepid, but it kept her safe from speaking her mind. Perhaps that was why she had enjoyed chatting with Guy: His opinion meant nothing to her, so she could say what she pleased.
“You will forgive me,” Sculthorpe went on. “My language is not always appropriate for the company of a lady. But you are marrying a military man, and I am plainspoken and direct. I call a spade a spade. And a whore a whore.”
And a virgin a virgin, Arabella didn’t say.
“But you are a practical woman, and I am grateful I need not guard my tongue with you. This is why we are such a good match. We have that in common.”
What we have in common is that we both wish to own me, Arabella didn’t say.
He was looking at her expectantly, so she offered a small nod that seemed to please him. Not that her response mattered; he would interpret it as he wished anyway.
“I trust you are not exhausting yourself with the wedding preparations,” he said. “You must take care of yourself, until I can take care of you.”
“Our wedding is not until spring. We have plenty of time to make the arrangements.”
“Did your father not write to you about our change in plans? I am to follow you to Vindale Court, where your parents will host a betrothal ball. The banns will be called in the following weeks, and we’ll be wed soon after Michaelmas.”
Arabella thought irrelevantly of the Michaelmas goose, fattened and roasted and laid out on every table in England that could afford it, with a blackberry pie to follow. September was one of her favorite months, when they trooped out under blue skies and orange leaves to pick blackberries and nuts, ahead of Michaelmas at the month’s end. She and Mama always prepared a feast for the tenants and villagers, before the winter began. She wondered if they would manage that this year, with a wedding as well.
“I thought we had agreed on a spring wedding, here in London, during the Season next year,” she said.
“I changed my mind.” He leaned in, the sun glinting on the medals on his chest. “I am keen for us to begin our life together. I fear my patience grows thinner, every time I look at you.”
Then do us both a favor and stop looking at me, she didn’t say.
Really, she deserved a medal too, for all the times she held her tongue. Was this how it would be the rest of her life?
“Perhaps I might be plain spoken with you too, my lord,” she ventured.
He pitched his voice to a low, intimate tone. “I hope you will, my fierce, sharp-tongued virgin.”
Tightening her belly to restrain her shudder, she sought a casual tone. “You use that word a lot. With me.”
Something flickered in his eyes. “It is true, though.”
“Of course,” she said hastily. “I merely wonder at your anticipation of something that you will dispense with more quickly than you smoke a cigar.”
He crept so close that his tobacco-flavored breath crawled over her ear. “The anticipation is the pleasure. You feel it too, don’t you, my own Miss Larke?”
Holding very still, Arabella forced herself to look at him, and adopted a cajoling tone that sounded distastefully false to her own ears. “But if I may, my lord, I do not belong to you.”
He lashed out, swift as an adder, seized the stick of her parasol, nearly knocking it from her hand. His eyes were hard; his square jaw clenched. A jolt shuddered down her arm and into her suddenly tight chest.
Then just as quickly, the harshness vanished, leaving nothing but affection and smiles. His fingers slithered down the stick, to find and briefly squeeze her hand.
“I see you’re one of those ladies with a taste for games, my dear,” he said chidingly, fondly. “But I can feel your little shivers of delight when I speak of our anticipation. You need not be ashamed; I will be your husband and your excitement pleases me.” He dropped his hand. “You are right, of course: You do not belong to me yet, but you will. On our wedding night, I shall claim you fully, after which you will be mine and no one else’s. Oh yes, I see you can hardly breathe at the thought.”
Finally, Sculthorpe had something right: Arabella could hardly breathe. She shifted to stare past him, at the soothing, flawless columns of soldiers.
“And then?” Her voice came out strangely hoarse.
“Then what?”
“After our honeymoon. After you have…” The soldiers marched, marched, marched. At some unseen signal, they stopped. “Claimed me fully.”
Stepping away, he pulled out his silver cigar case and signaled to a boy with a lantern to bring him a light.
“Then you will be the mother of my children,” he said calmly. “Once our sons are born and our second son is named heir of your father’s estate, you may live there independently with him. I can put that in the marriage settlement, if you wish.”
A month before their wedding and they were negotiating separate lives. It was not the worst offer. This marriage would secure her dream: Vindale Court, her home. A wife could not turn her husband away from her bed, not if he insisted on claiming his rights, but she need only suffer his attentions until she had borne him two sons, and then she would be free.
“You are pleased,” he said.
“I am…overcome. I think I need some air,” she added, foolishly, for they were already outside.
“I understand,” he murmured. “We truly understand each other. I watched you and knew you would be perfect for me.”
“I am honored, my lord,” she managed to say, before thrusting her glass into his hands and making her escape.
Unseeingly, Arabella pushed through the crowd. She had crossed the limits of propriety in speaking thus to Sculthorpe, driven by her need to know, but the knowledge left her feeling even more helpless. Perhaps all men had thoughts like that, but they hid them under bad poetry and good manners, and Sculthorpe only revealed himself because of their engagement.
She might have walked aimlessly for miles, until that elaborate green bonnet once more caught her eye.
Clare Ivory, also alone, was heading toward a copse of trees. Without knowing her own intention, Arabella casually adjusted her direction to follow the other woman.
No sooner had Arabella reached the trees than Clare Ivory whirled around.
Under the bonnet, her pale face was a perfect oval. Her pink lips were uncommonly plump, her large eyes a silvery-blue. The whole was framed by hair so fair it was almost white. Clare Ivory had the face of a seductive angel, they said; no wonder she was a successful courtesan.
“Are you following me, Miss Larke? I wonder that a lady of your station would even acknowledge me.”
Arabella closed her parasol with a snap. She must not be seen anywhere near Miss Ivory, but the trees sheltered them, and for now they were alone but for some boys playing dice and a pie seller taking a break.
“Yet we have much in common,” Arabella said. “We were both once thought to be engaged to Guy Roth, and Lord Sculthorpe was the first man to bed you, as he will be for me.”
Miss Ivory’s eyes widened. “You show a surprising lack of delicacy, not to mention care for your reputation. What would the world say if you were seen with me?”
“For one, they could make a marvelous portrait of us. The title suggests itself.”
“‘The virgin and the whore.’” For a woman with an angel’s face, Miss Ivory could employ a tone as dry and sharp as Arabella’s. “Do you think yourself daring?”
“Curious, rather.”
Fear, anger, and desperation combined to create a certain daring, Arabella supposed. Her only recourse was to learn about what frightened her.
“You could have become Guy’s marchioness,” she said.
“But I did not want to.” Miss Ivory raised her chin in a challenge. “Did you f
ollow me here to speak of Guy?”
Arabella absently untangled the fringe on her parasol. “Guy is of no interest. It is Lord Sculthorpe I wish to inquire about.”
“Oh dear, Miss Larke. The things I can tell you about Lord Sculthorpe are not things a lady should know about her husband.”
“I beg to differ. A lady should know as much as possible about everything that affects her. I wish to understand his preferences. His…tastes.” The other woman averted her face, but not before Arabella caught her mocking smile. “This amuses you, Miss Ivory?” she said sharply.
“I suspect this is not a typical conversation for you, Miss Larke. Are you finding it enjoyable?”
“I am finding it excruciating. And you?”
“Equally.”
“Then let this be finished quickly.”
“Every harlot’s prayer,” Miss Ivory said dryly.
“And every wife’s?”
That riposte earned her a laugh; their eyes met with an unexpected sense of alliance.
“Is Lord Sculthorpe feared?” Arabella asked.
“He is not known for cruelty, no.”
Arabella hazarded a guess. “But is he known for visiting harlots in search of virgins?”
“You do know more than you ought. Such knowledge is dangerous for a fine lady like yourself.”
Arabella ignored her. It remained a mystery why people insisted it was dangerous for ladies to know things; surely ignorance was much more dangerous. If only information were not so difficult to obtain!
“They must be a rare delicacy, virgins,” she speculated. “Are they difficult to procure? Or are they simply very…young?”
“His lordship prefers his women to be mature—and willing, to his credit. They are not cheap but he is happy to pay the premium. He takes particular pleasure in winning an auction. They are, as you say, a rare delicacy, and he is willing to indulge only when they become available.”
“Because the anticipation is the pleasure.” Arabella caught the other woman’s expression and looked away, through the trees. The risk to her reputation increased the longer she spent here, but she had to know. “What does a man seek, with this preference for virgins?”
“Possession, I believe. Planting his flag, as it were, and conquering the territory. The belief that a part of the woman will always belong to him. The more virgins he beds, the more women he owns.”
“Like bagging grouse.”
“Quite.”
“Then it is about defeating other men,” Arabella mused. “Not about his pleasure, or even about the woman.”
“The amusing part is that such men cannot infallibly determine whether or not a woman is a virgin, although they persist in believing they can, and refuse to listen to the midwives, wise women, and courtesans who say differently.”
A strange thrill of excitement streaked through Arabella’s veins. “Is that so?” she said, her mouth shaping the words carefully. “I was always made to believe that a woman’s virtue can be physically proven.”
Miss Ivory shook her head, ever so meaningfully. “I always believed that too. Before I… Well. Before.”
“Then a cunning woman might sell her virginity several times over.”
“It is a good business, albeit a short-term one. A man expects blood and some barrier to break through. One can learn a trick for producing blood, and the rest is performance.” Miss Ivory laughed softly. “In some respects, the practiced harlot makes a more satisfying virgin than an actual innocent does.”
From somewhere came a volley of musket fire. Arabella had stayed too long. She opened her parasol, her hands unusually clumsy.
“Thank you, Miss Ivory. Your knowledge and experience are invaluable.”
Another topic for Arabella to commission from writers, if she could publish it discreetly. Perhaps she could conceal the information amid frivolously feminine subjects where men would never venture.
“A baroness is not as impressive as a marchioness,” Miss Ivory said, a shrewd look in her eyes, “but after your marriage you will wield considerable influence, I daresay. Certainly, your reputation precedes you.”
Arabella heard the invitation. “I would not be averse to continuing our acquaintance, albeit with discretion.”
“I would like that.”
Miss Ivory extended one hand in an elaborately embroidered glove. Without hesitation, Arabella shook it.
“An unexpected pleasure, Miss Ivory.”
“Indeed. I have caught glimpses of you over the years and wondered why Guy was so opposed to marrying you.”
“We never got along, though we were promised to each other as children.”
“Perhaps you would have got along better had you not been promised to each other as children.”
“Perhaps.”
With a nod of farewell, Arabella headed out of the trees and back through the crowd toward Mama and Sculthorpe, her thoughts racing.
The main question was whether she would marry Sculthorpe—and that was no question at all. He repelled her, but for ladies of her station, repellent husbands were merely an unpleasant fact of life, like one’s monthly courses, and boiled fish for dinner, and that odd little toenail that always caught in her stocking. Like her mother and grandmother and aunts, she was a lady born to wealth and privilege, and this was the price she paid.
If she refused? She would lose everything and then what use would she be? As a baroness, she would have the power to help others. How foolish to give that up, simply because she didn’t like the way he looked at her.
She had to marry Sculthorpe. She had to become his in law. She did not have to become his in spirit. She did not have to give any more of herself than necessary. She did not have to go to his bed a virgin.
Arabella stopped walking so abruptly someone jostled her with an explosion of curses. At her look, the curses changed to apologies, but she hardly heard those either.
The notion was shocking. Impossible. Utterly unthinkable. Yet she had thought it. And there, among the chaotic crowd and orderly soldiers, the thought hardened inside her like a shield.
The law declared that a man owned his wife, but Arabella had little respect for the law, because she knew the men who made it. Let Sculthorpe think what he pleased. She would prove to herself he did not own her, and never feel weak beside him again.
Suddenly, she felt revived. That panicked, unknown part of her mind relaxed; the sense of helplessness melted. She would be a baroness. She would raise sons and daughters, and love them equally. She would use her social position to influence politics and help those in need, while her husband bought his virgin whores and left her in peace.
Arabella moved on again, her limbs deliciously light.
The main obstacle, of course, was that she had not the faintest idea how to get seduced. Men never so much as flirted with her. Even the wickedest of rakes took one look at her and scurried off in search of easier prey.
Were there such things as male harlots? Perhaps Clare Ivory could find her one.
But no— Something this important could never be entrusted to a stranger. She intended to marry Sculthorpe, and did not want to spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder. The ideal man was someone whose discretion was assured.
She was still considering her options when Mama emerged from the crowd.
“You’re looking very bright-eyed, all of a sudden,” Mama said.
“The soldiers are terrifically invigorating. I say, let’s invite Sir Walter and Lady Treadgold and their family to Vindale Court. Apparently, they have left town, but if anyone can find them, you can.”
Mama said nothing, questions in her eyes.
“I have taken an interest in Miss Matilda Treadgold,” Arabella explained airily. “And of course I adore Freddie.”
“Very well. Young ladies are always a welcome addition to a party.”
Arabella started to walk on, only to falter at a flash of green. Clare Ivory. Mama looked at her and said nothing. As always, there
was no withstanding Mama’s silence.
“I was only talking to her,” Arabella said.
“Take care, my dear.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Take very good care.”
Chapter 5
A clandestine meeting was actually rather diverting, Guy was pleased to realize, as he prowled around the drawing room in his deserted house at midnight, glass of wine in hand.
It was not the thrill that had induced him to accept Clare’s request for a meeting, though; it was curiosity. Clare’s note had surprised him, when it arrived the day after the military review. They should talk, she wrote. She would make no demands or trouble, she promised. No one must ever know; she would come at night and he should send all the servants away.
The secrecy struck Guy as unnecessarily dramatic, but he was intrigued and amused enough to play along.
Curious, too, because years later, Guy still didn’t understand what had happened, and almost nobody dared mention Clare Ivory in his presence.
Mainly he was embarrassed by his youthful foolishness. How smitten he had been, from the first moment he saw Clare. How ardent, in his youthful declarations of love. And how fervent, after that final, dreadful fight with his father, when he had traveled all night to beg Clare to elope, only for her to confess that Sculthorpe had seduced her and left her to her ruin.
Still, he had offered to marry her; still, she had refused. He had left without asking why, because he had been young and proud and feared he might weep, and he could not bear for the woman who broke his heart to see him weep. Instead, he had challenged Sculthorpe, earned a beating for his trouble, then boarded the first ship out of England, barely able to see through his swollen eyes.
When he heard the sounds of the front door opening and the sole servant murmuring, Guy’s roaming had brought him to the writing desk. He set down his glass, arranged the green silk banyan over his shirt, and leaned back against the wall to await Clare’s entrance.
