by Pendle, Eve
Pretending this was normal was difficult, but a perfect lady would find a way. Emily had kept telling herself that after her ride with Oscar. He’d left her abruptly when they’d arrived back at the house. The housekeeper had immediately commandeered her attention to check all the cleaning was up to her standard and the budget was appropriate. The cook had then been eager to gain her approval of menus, which were remarkably void of butter, cream, and eggs for a man as wealthy as Markshall. Emily had nodded and reassured them and queried just enough to ensure they felt heard and knew she cared.
But all the time she’d been thinking of the revelation of Oscar’s care of a little girl, Fanny. Lady Lakenham had inadvertently caused him to reveal something disinterestedly good about himself. He could have sent her to a poor house to be trained as an overworked and underpaid maid-of-all-work to the bourgeoisie. He could have ignored Fanny. But instead, he sponsored her and arranged for her to be trained in a proper craft.
It was directly at odds with his reputation and much of what he’d told her. She’d been thinking of how maybe he wasn’t so bad. Then he’d spoilt it, rather like Connie always did, by talking of things Emily would rather forget. Her sister too had a habit of bringing up Emily hunting or riding when she felt herself under scrutiny. His bringing up hunting had reminded her that as a moral woman, she ought to resist him. And that was probably a good thing. Probably.
The only solution was to throw herself more into her ferns. Her mission to find the affy fern hadn’t progressed at all since she’d met Markshall and it made her itch. She’d received a letter from Mrs. Burnham saying the Lady Hunters were back in Cumbria and telling her about the uneventful remainder of the trip. From Miss Green she’d had a letter with thinly veiled worry that Emily’s marriage would mean the group ceased to exist. Emily shared that concern and had no idea how to answer.
That was a problem she wasn’t sure how to manage. She’d already written to Beatrix Anderson, her friend from Cumbria who was already in London, asking her to visit and discuss the issue.
She stared up into the canopy of the bed. This was married life then. Alone, thinking. Worrying. If last night’s emotions had had the breadth and depth of Handel’s Messiah in a summer rose garden, tonight was… Silence. A solitary quiet. The bed was large and despite the bedwarmer, the edges were cold.
There was no sound from his room next door, but she knew he was there. She’d been lying for an interminable amount of time when she’d heard Markshall’s firm steps in the corridor, then the muffled sound of him sending away his valet. Having spent so much time yesterday waiting on his bed, not reading, she could conjure up the image of the room perfectly. The red curtains, the solid, unfussy furniture, and the richly patterned carpet.
By comparison, the ladylike pale blue of her own chambers seemed frigid.
In the dark, she could admit what she couldn’t think in the light. She wanted to be in that fire-colored room, with Oscar. Some would say it was her duty to lie with her husband. But then, she’d promised to obey, and he’d made it clear she’d repulsed him.
It was wrong to want him; it was neither modest nor sensible. But she wanted every overwhelming, hazily remembered sensation again. Her body had never felt as it did with his, the curve of her breasts against the hard planes of his chest, the slit she’d never realized was made for a man.
Perhaps she only wanted the sensations he evoked in her. If she could mimic it, would this vague longing go away?
The treacherous thought seeped through her and made her hands, clumsy and inexperienced, down her body. It was wanton to open her legs, lying on her back, and slip her fingers into the satiny hair and into the moisture beyond. But surely it wasn’t as weak as going to her husband.
This part of her was strange and unknown. It had never occurred to her to explore herself here. She parted then stroked down the folds and a thrill went through her at the sensation. This was another world, slippery and soft, with unexpected mountain ridges and a rounded hill. Then there was the space of liquid quicksand that seemed to bring her finger inside, just as it had Markshall’s member. Her finger was caught so tight, it seemed impossible that the enormously larger part of her husband had ever been there. It was her body’s magic trick, revealed to her by him.
She moved her finger gently, trying to find what Markshall had done to build her into a wild passion. It felt nice, only nice. What had he done to make her shudder and moan? She hadn’t been analyzing or making notes, she’d been immersed in the reverie.
Had he stroked her? She made long motions, up and down and felt the stirrings of... Frustration. As she touched herself, she wasn’t managing to find the critical patch Markshall had found. A fleeting touch sent electric through her, but then it went darting away as she tried to do it again.
Could it be that it only happened with a man? Her mother had never said anything on that matter. Neither had her mother told her a man would lick between her legs.
She was such an uneducated idiot. She had no idea how her own body even worked beyond that her courses arrived approximately once a month and her legs and arms all moved.
She stilled her hand. This was getting her nowhere. For hours she could try to reach the sensation her tingling body required. Much more efficient to see if Markshall wanted to repeat the experience for her.
It was wrong. Her feelings were wrong and the things he’d done to her were wrong. But so were many other things she’d done and she needed this. The reasons for her disgust at herself and him had been visceral this morning but now seemed as though they were viewed through an out of focus telescope, blurry and indistinct. But still, they were there, even through the haze of her frustration.
She was determined not to give in.
She opened her eyes. The curtains were closed, but the moonlight was peeking through, spilling silver into the room. It seeped in despite the barriers, like Markshall into her life.
She would not think of him.
Perhaps she’d suggest silver as a theme for Connie’s debut. It would look lovely with deep green... No. Connie was always adamant about not wanting to be anything like Emily and green was too associated with ferns. A light pink or soft blue would be better for her. Although at Emily’s debut, before her interest in ferns, everything had been draped in a deep pink, so Connie wouldn’t want pink.
Before ferns. A half lifetime ago. When she’d no more dreamed of collecting something so delicate as ferns than of marrying a man like Lord Markshall. When her heart had belonged to James, a man she couldn’t bear to think of any more. And yet here she was, in the next room to a rake who made her burn for the feel of his hands on her.
Ugh, she must not think of Markshall.
She stared at the shadows of the unfamiliar furniture in the room. All items he must have collected at one time or another. What was he doing now? It was quiet, and she’d heard him retire to bed. He wasn’t pining for her, evidently.
From somewhere downstairs, she heard a long clock strike three.
It was the dark of the night and she hadn’t slept. She couldn’t sleep for the need to go to her husband. If she just got it out of herself this once, like a bad humor, it would be solved. She crept out of bed.
Just this once.
Chapter Sixteen
The world had taken on an unreality, as if she were an automaton labeled Lord Markshall’s wife rather than a person in herself. Two days after her marriage, Oscar was constantly out and Emily was accepting callers. There were plenty of curious friends and members of the ton to gawp at the new Countess of Markshall.
Thankfully her friend Beatrix arrived amongst the throng. They chatted about the décor of her parlor: in need of ornamentation, the weather: wet, and the upcoming parties and debut balls: dull.
Her promise to herself that it would only be one night that she went to him was futile. She’d been to him every night since they married. She’d tried to sleep, then given up in the darkness, before creeping back to her own bed befor
e dawn.
That was bad enough, but he disturbed her waking hours too, despite not being present. Frequently she had to even out her breath in an attempt to prevent color rising into her cheeks. Fragments of thoughts and feelings, soft-edged like a dream, rose in her memory as she assured the ladies how well satisfied she was with her marriage. The feel of Oscar’s grip on his waist. Oscar rolling her under him and thrusting into her like he owned her.
Eventually, the other callers moved on, after not much more than the appropriate fifteen minutes, and she had a chance to speak to Beatrix. It was past time. There was no denying that things were changing. Lady Emily was gone, leaving a gap that needed to be minded.
“I will be living in London, or at my husband’s main estate in Northamptonshire.” This was another change. Marriage changed not just a woman’s name, but her body, her home, and all her options. “This will leave a difficulty with organizing the Lady Hunters in Cumbria. The administration will be impossible for me at a distance. I was thinking perhaps someone might step in.”
Beatrix’s eyes lit up. “I’ll do it.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” After hours of worrying, this solution had slid past her mind last night as she’d fallen asleep, sated after returning from Oscar’s bed.
“What will you do though?” Beatrix asked.
“Young women in London are as needful of fresh air, exercise, and education, as any others in the country.” Emily had wondered about the next step. But it was now obvious. “I think I shall found another group of Lady Hunters, here in London.”
“Oh, that’s such a tremendous idea.” Beatrix pressed her palms together in front of her mouth. “And you will have much more access to interesting and informative people to write pamphlets, too.” The hem of her dress vibrated as she tapped her feet with excitement.
“Precisely.” Emily nodded, caught up by her friend’s enthusiasm. “We can establish a series of Lady Hunters associations. An association of associations.”
It would be more difficult with her damaged credibility being associated with Lord Markshall. But they were married and that was a great indulgence on sins. Whatever respectability that wasn’t already available from being the daughter of a Duke could surely be solved with the title, Countess of Markshall.
“Yes!” Beatrix’s eyes were wide and starry. “I’ll run the one in Cumbria, you can organize the London one. Miss Harris is engaged to a gentleman in Leeds. She might start a group there.”
When had their ambitions grown so much? She’d always vaguely wanted to create new groups. But it had been four years and she hadn’t so much as mentioned the idea to Beatrix, her closest ally and friend. Emily had been so focused on keeping her reputation intact, she’d not allowed herself anything but the smallest ambitions, like finding the affy fern. She’d shrunk everything in her life down to being polite.
Was the change because of Markshall? She pushed the thought away.
“That’s a capital idea,” Emily replied. “We can share resources. Books, pamphlets, ideas. It wouldn’t be the same as meeting up in person though.” Marriage would change everything. “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too.” Beatrix put out a hand. “But I’ll be in London for at least part of the season. And we’ll send letters.”
Her old life was gone, Emily realized with a pang. She didn’t live in Cumbria anymore. But neither was she Lady Emily and perhaps that was a good thing. Perhaps Lady Markshall could be a... better person than Lady Emily was.
“Have you found the affy fern for your collection yet?” Beatrix cut into her wool-gathering.
“No.” She hadn’t had time or opportunity. Perhaps Lady Markshall just couldn’t do the things Lady Emily had.
“It’ll turn up.” Beatrix smiled comfortingly. “Just when you’re not looking and have given up.”
Turn up just when you’re not looking. Like a husband. Or a scandal.
* * *
Markshall was coming down to breakfast at his customary hour of almost noon when he heard voices. Laughter and banter in female tones, coming from Emily’s parlor. He followed the sound and stood before the door for a moment.
He probably wouldn’t be welcome, she had made that clear by being absent from the dinner table and other moments they might have met. At night it was like a dream. She came to his bed and he took full advantage of her, taking and giving, exploring her gently and learning her every sweet spot. But it wasn’t enough to settle him. After Emily left his bed, thoughts of Emily and Lydia and Annie all swirled around his mind until he couldn’t tell whether he felt guilt or longing or worry.
His duties called. He had an unending list of delicate investigation of motives he needed to enact on fellow lords. He needed to write his now daily letter to Sir Thomas, demanding more news. He didn’t dare send more telegrams given the possibility of their being less private. His daughter was still ill and there was nothing he could do but wait.
Given Emily was with someone, and he wasn’t at all sure she liked him or wanted to see him, he ought to walk away. But then, he was a rogue and he couldn’t make things much worse.
Both women looked up as he entered the room. A tall woman with black hair and a neat brown dress with a blue and yellow flower print sat opposite Emily. In contrast, Emily’s dress was pale green with a white pattern of – what else – ferns. It was as if her ferns were armor against the world.
“Good morning, my lord.” Emily’s jollity fell away. She was going to sustain an icy demeanor during the day then, despite her hot responses during the night.
“I thought I’d join you.” He pulled up a chair from the table and put it next to the settees they were on. It was an obtuse act, but he couldn’t help himself.
“Very well.” Emily blinked but showed no other sign of displeasure. “This is Mrs. Anderson, my good friend from Cumbria. Beatrix, this is my husband, Lord Markshall.”
Mrs. Anderson smiled with genuine pleasure. “I’m pleased to meet anyone who has won Lady Emily’s approval.”
Markshall bit his lip to prevent himself from saying anything unwise and nodded.
“I have the next two pamphlets written and printed.” Emily turned to her friend and resumed their conversation. “But perhaps you’ll manage the next one?”
“What subject was your last pamphlet on?” Emily had told him about this scheme in the hole and he’d imagined little notes on how to tie bows or short treatise on the appropriate amount of flouncing on a skirt.
“It is an explanation of how electricity works, its uses, and dangers,” Mrs. Anderson replied eagerly. “But the pamphlets have covered everything from how a steam engine works, to the dangers of arsenic wallpaper, or correct standards of mourning dress.”
“Not on subjects more related to ferns?” Arsenic green dye was a real danger to fern enthusiasts, but steam engines hardly seemed the sort of thing to interest botanists and pteridologists.
Emily sat and listened as if it were the other woman’s scheme. But she seemed quite content to have planted the seed and watch Mrs. Anderson tend the plant.
“Lady Emily, or rather Lady Markshall before she married, had a really excellent pamphlet written on the prevention of infection when treating a wound acquired outside.” Mrs. Anderson leaned forward. “That’s quite possible when one is collecting ferns and using scissors or trowels to collect samples or plants.”
Or if one was shot. An interesting subject to be zealous about. Markshall glanced over at Emily, but her eyes were downcast and she was stirring her tea.
“And tell me, what are you going to cover next?” he enquired.
“What about–” Mrs. Anderson said.
“I was about to suggest Dr. Barnardo and his work with young orphans,” Emily interjected smoothly.
This was Emily’s revenge for his intruding. She was going to needle him in a way that was so subtle only they would see it. Mrs. Anderson would be her unwitting accomplice.
“Yes.” Mrs. Anderso
n didn’t look enthused. “We don’t want to preach though. We explained The Poor Law at the beginning of the year. And many ladies already work with orphanages and charities.”
Or perhaps she wouldn’t be Emily’s accomplice. Oscar felt the corner of his mouth tug upward. Emily had chosen her friend well.
It was only as Emily sipped tea that he noticed how still she was. She cultivated her stillness into an unflappable persona. It gave her the impression of being unshakeable, perhaps emotionless.
“I was thinking.” Mrs. Anderson colored and looked at Markshall with concern. “I have an idea that I had been hesitant to bring up with you when you were unmarried. A topic only suitable for married women.”
“By all means carry on in my presence.” Markshall shrugged. “There are no secrets between my wife and me.”
That jerked Emily’s head up to regard him, a mixture of fear and warning in her eyes.
He smiled in return, reassuring her he was telling the truth. She knew all his worst secrets. Well, she didn’t exactly know how he attempted to undermine the Tories and the reactionary forces in the House of Lords. But that wasn’t of any consequence.
Mrs. Anderson took a deep breath. “I was thinking that a condensed version of Marie Stopes book would be very helpful for many women. You know, the one about married love. And prophylactics.” She looked uncertainly at Markshall, as if she expected him to loudly ban her from the house.
There was a stunned silence for a second. Of all the things he expected Emily’s friend to say, this was the last, and Emily was obviously surprised too.
“Bravo, Mrs. Anderson.” Markshall began to laugh. “I think that is an admirable idea. If you will permit me, I shall pay for the paper myself.”
“You don’t think it could compromise our respectability,” Emily said, the fear having won out in her eyes.
“Darling,” Oscar replied. “What respectability? You’ve already said you are covert about distribution of these pamphlets. And besides, you married the most notorious rake in London.”
