by Emily Royal
*
As the tapping of the old woman’s cane faded into the distance, Mrs. Barnes appeared at the door.
“Is the duchess not staying?”
“No.”
“A pity,” Mrs. Barnes said. “I’d hoped the two of you would become friends.” She gestured to the portrait above the pianoforte.
“Is that her?”
“Quite the beauty, wasn’t she? Mr. Davie’s father captured her likeness to perfection back then. Mr. Davie will do the same for you for he’s inherited his father’s style and talent. You’ll see for yourself tomorrow when he begins. He’s adept at capturing the unconventional. She was an outsider herself, too.
“She disapproves of my being an outsider,” Jeanette said. “As soon as I told her I punched a viscount, she couldn’t leave quickly enough.”
“Perhaps she’s afraid of your right hook.” Mrs. Barnes’s eyes shone with mirth. “She’s forgotten what she once was. The old duke’s family despised her for being the daughter of a mere country squire, and her antics did nothing to recommend her. Shortly after she married, she rode a horse up the main staircase of Marcham Hall. If you look carefully, you can see a hoofprint in the wall by the fifth step. But fifty years as a duchess have taken their toll. Her freedom of spirit was eroded years ago.”
“I won’t let that happen to me, Mrs. Barnes.”
“One must adapt to survive. You have proven more than adept at directing the management of the estate; society should be easy in comparison. Why not host a house party? His lordship usually holds one this time of year, so I’m sure he’d approve if you planned one yourself. It can be achieved at relatively little cost to the estate, especially if the tenants who have benefited from your efforts help with the arrangements.”
Perhaps Mrs. Barnes was right. What better gratification could Jeanette take from playing society’s worst snobs at their own game? She would show Henry that she could fulfill the role of Lady Ravenwell on her own. And there was nothing so desirable to a man such as Henry as a woman who was not in need of him.
*
Henry dropped the letter on his desk. Good heavens, he hadn’t expected his wife’s transformation into the materialistic society lady to happen so quickly. A house party! Yet more expense on top of the cost of that bloody portrait.
Very well. Let her play the part of the hostess. She wanted him to return to Sussex, did she? She had no right to make demands of him. Women were supposed to obey their husbands, not the other way round. But he’d do exactly what she asked of him, and he would take an additional guest with him.
Perhaps that would teach her a lesson in obedience, and in knowing her place.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“I fail to understand why Lord Ravenwell isn’t here.”
Jeanette picked up her glass to disguise the tremble in her hand. Lady Anne Almondbury leaned forward, her elegantly dressed shape coming into view, dark blue silk stretching across an over-ample bosom. Couldn’t the woman have waited until after dinner?
Eight couples adorned the dining table, including Lord and Lady Holmestead. The model of discretion, Lady Holmestead had greeted Jeanette as one might greet any acquaintance. With a wry smile, she had thanked Jeanette for her invitation, adding that she hoped Henry’s dueling pistols were safely under lock and key. With the exception of Sir Daniel Winters and Charlotte, Jeanette didn’t know the other guests, but Mrs. Barnes had assured her they were the usual guests Henry invited, even if he hadn’t bothered to return to Sussex to receive them.
Further down the table, Charlotte smiled at her. Encouraged, Jeanette set her glass aside.
“What a thoughtful remark, Lady Anne! My husband is occupied in London.”
“What with?”
A hush descended over the party. Were they waiting to see her humiliated over Henry’s infidelity?
“I’ve no idea,” she replied. “Some wives waste their lives pining for their husbands’ company, but it’s a sorry woman who thinks her life must be defined by a man.”
Lady Anne resumed her attention on her soup, but not before hissing at her husband.
“Why should we suffer the company of that upstart if her husband does not? She’s even invited that doxy, Lady Winters.”
“Hush, my dear. The Ravenwell name…”
“…is being dragged through the mire.”
A door slammed in the distance, interrupting Lord Maybury’s diatribe on animal husbandry. Jeanette’s body reacted even before the dining room door flew open.
Henry stood in the doorway next to a boy about ten years old. A plain, coarsely-woven jacket hung on the child’s thin frame. His face was dark with dirt, cheeks streaked with moisture, mouth set in a scowl.
But his eyes! Two bright blue gems stared around the room. The familiarity of their shape and color matched the triumphant smile on Henry’s lips.
The boy needed no introduction.
“Forgive me for being late,” Henry said. “Let me introduce you to Edward.” His knuckles whitened and he eyed her as if in challenge.
Lady Anne craned her neck to get a look at the boy, a sneer on her face.
How could Henry treat her like this! But now was not the time for anger. The child needed to be removed from this den of wolves as quickly as possible, for his own sake.
Jeanette addressed the footman.
“Fawkes, my husband is hungry. Please set a place for him and take the young gentleman to the kitchen. Mrs. Pratt will have something for him there.”
“No,” Henry said, “I want you to take care of the brat.”
“Of course.” She stood and addressed the guests. “Please excuse me. My husband can take my place, and I’ll join you for breakfast in the morning.”
“Well, really!” Lady Anne hissed.
Jeanette marched toward Henry. Fixing him with a cold look, she took the boy’s hand, sticky with dirt, and led him out of the room.
As soon as the door closed behind her, the boy began to struggle.
“Let me go!”
“No.”
“Let go, you bloody woman!”
He flinched as if expecting a blow. When Jeanette didn’t react, he swore again.
“Bloody, bloody hell!”
“Very good,” she said, “we’ve established you can curse, though your repertoire is limited.”
“I drink, and play poker, too!”
“Then you take after your papa,” she said crisply. “Do you also sleep with whores?”
“Don’t call them whores!” the boy cried. “You bloody lords and ladies think you’re so much better, but you’re not!”
“Then don’t curse in my home.”
“I’ll curse all I bleedin’ like!”
Jeanette spun him round to face her.
“Then you must do better than that, love.” She lapsed into her regional accent. “I could drink ye under the table. As for poker, I’ll see your bloody and raise you two buggers and a fuck.”
The boy’s eyes widened, then he giggled. “I’ll meet your two buggers and a fuck and raise you a shit.”
“Very good,” she laughed. “You’ll fit in here marvelously.”
“No, I won’t. I don’t fit in anywhere.”
“Who told you that?”
“Papa said I wouldn’t be welcome here. But I have nowhere else to go.” The boy’s eyes glistened with vulnerability.
“Where’s your mother?” Jeanette asked.
“His mother was a prostitute.”
The boy flinched at the deep voice. Henry stood in the hallway, arms folded.
“I didn’t ask what she was,” Jeanette said. “I asked where she was.”
“She died giving birth to him.”
Henry’s face twisted into a sneer, though whether his contempt was for the boy’s mother or Jeanette herself, she didn’t know. She pulled Edward into a protective embrace.
“Finish your meal, husband, and tend to our guests. I’ll take care of the boy.”
He opened his mouth as if to reply, then turned his back and returned to the dining room.
“Come along, Edward,” she said. “Let’s get you something to eat.”
*
Jeanette sat on the bed and stroked Edward’s forehead. The child had demolished Mrs. Pratt’s stew as if he’d not eaten for days, mopping the remnants up with slabs of bread, his bony fingers cramming the food into his mouth.
He had fallen asleep while she’d bathed him, soaping his limbs and taking care to rub gently over the bruises and weals which covered his skin. He had jerked awake, crying, before shrinking back as if he’d expected her to beat him. The product of a brief, sordid liaison between a marquis and a doxy, Edward had already exceeded the average life expectancy for an abandoned, unloved child.
She had drawn him to her, water seeping into her clothes, then she’d wrapped him in a blanket and led him to the bedchamber Mrs. Barnes had prepared for him. Finally settled in bed, the creases in his forehead disappeared as Jeanette kissed him on the cheek.
Jeanette rose and returned to her bedchamber. Let Henry deal with the guests. She had no time tonight for a society which overlooked the suffering of those less fortunate.
Once inside, she leaned against the door. Thank goodness the day was over.
“My wife seems indisposed.”
Henry stepped out of the shadows.
“Where have you been?”
“Tending to your son. At least, I presume he’s yours.”
“My wife is angry.”
“Not at all.”
The aroma of male spices grew stronger as he moved toward her.
“Your body betrays you, as it does on other occasions.”
She stepped back. “Perhaps my husband might explain why he thinks his wife is angry.”
“Because I brought my son to your society dinner.”
Self-satisfaction slithered all over his expression. He raised his eyebrows in challenge, but she refused to react.
“What?” he asked. “Is the Holmestead Harlot affronted by the appearance of her husband’s natural son?”
“Unfeeling brute,” she hissed, “to shame that poor boy in front of our guests!”
“Your guests. You invited them.”
“Had you been a proper husband, you’d have been here to receive them. And had you possessed any humanity, you would not have brought the child here.”
“I’m his father. I can do what I damned well like with him. He’s lived in that whorehouse with little or no discipline. He needs a good thrashing.”
“Is that your answer for everything? Physical strength, exerting authority? He’s a child!”
“He’s the son of a prostitute.”
“Maybe his poor mother had no choice.”
“She spread her thighs for half the men of London.”
“Then shame on them!”
He strode toward her, eyes darkening, nostrils flaring as he draped his gaze over her damp gown. “This talk of loose women has whetted my appetite.”
She covered her body as her breasts began to pebble under his hungry gaze.
“Come here,” he growled, “and do your duty.”
Fighting the longing which pulsed within her, she moved to the door. Before she reached it, he was upon her, his lean, hard body trapping her against the wall.
“Let me go.”
“Not until I’ve had satisfaction.”
“Very well,” she snarled. “Take your pleasure, then go.”
His lip curled into a smile, his hooded eyes black with lust. “Oh no, my dear, I’ll take your pleasure first.”
A whimper of need erupted in her throat. Recognizing the invitation, he grasped her shoulders, and his hot, hard mouth crashed against hers. A fire ignited deep within her, a dark red glow which danced to a slow rhythm before bursting into a bright golden flame.
She buried her fingers in the soft material of his jacket and drew him closer, primal need conquering rational thought. With a movement borne from years of practice, he dipped his hand into the front of her gown. The material, still wet from the child’s bath, clung to her skin. With a hiss of frustration, he tugged at it and the material split, tearing against her skin to expose her breasts.
He claimed a breast and nipped her skin with his teeth, marking her. Her body responded, and she arched her back, offering herself to him.
He clasped her buttocks and lifted her up, teasing her thighs open, and she wrapped her legs around him. The source of his desire bulged against the center of her need. She squirmed against him, the yearning to ease the pressure between her thighs too great to resist. In response, a rumble vibrated in his chest and he thrust his tongue deeper into her mouth, swallowing her cries.
He stepped back and collided into the dressing table. Gripping her shoulders, he spun her round until she faced the mirror, her back to him. He swept aside the contents, and bottles and phials fell to the floor, the musical notes of splintering glass overshadowed by his breathing which grew hoarse with need. He grasped the front of her gown and ripped it apart. A rush of cold air tightened her skin before his hands claimed her body once more. He squeezed her breast, playing the distended nipple with his thumb, the sweet agony intensifying until she could bear it no longer.
“Henry!”
“Do you beg me?” The low rumble of his voice swirled inside her mind.
“I…”
“Do you beg me to take you?”
He dipped his hand between her legs and teased her thighs open. The jolt of pleasure forced air into her lungs as he moved his expert fingers against her flesh which was already slick.
“Your body cannot lie, sweeting. There’s nothing so arousing as a woman who is ready for her man.”
“Oh!” She cried out as his finger slipped inside her.
“Look at me,” he growled, “I want to see your face when you come undone.”
In the mirror, her face was flushed a deep red. The man behind her moved into view, his eyes glittering with need. He drew a circle across her flesh before he found the sensitive little bud of nerves at her center. She shuddered as the wave swelled inside her.
“That’s it, Jeanette, come for me.”
He withdrew his fingers, then plunged into her. The wave crashed, shattering her body with the force of her climax, and she clung to the table as he pounded into her. He threw his head back, the tendons taut in his neck. Mouth open, he issued a low cry which swelled into a bellow of triumph as he drove into her with a final thrust.
The long absence of intimacy had magnified her hunger for him which now took its toll. She collapsed forward, aftershocks threading through her body. Warm arms wrapped around her, and he pulled her to him. His chest heaved with exertion, his breath a gentle whisper in her ear.
“Jeanette, oh, my Jeanette.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Where’s your wife this morning, Lord Ravenwell? Tending to the brat?” Lady Almondbury sipped her tea, the innocent inquiry belying the malice in her eyes.
Henry had never liked the woman, yet another embodiment, and a fat one at that, of the aristocratic wife.
“She’ll join us presently.”
Given his behavior, he didn’t know whether Jeanette would join them. She had acted admirably last night, taking care of Edward, even defending the boy. And what had Henry done in return? Not content with humiliating her in front of their guests, he had taken her roughly. Her body might have been willing, but his conscience still pained him.
Her expression had been peaceful when he’d left her at first light, her goodness radiating from her body which rose and fell with each breath as she slept. He had placed a hand on her cheek and traced the outline of her mouth with his thumb, closing his eyes and whispering her name as her warm breath caressed the skin of his hand.
She deserved better than him. Her anger last night had not arisen from indignation at Edward’s appearance, but outrage at Henry’s lack of compassion toward the boy. What a fool he was t
o have thought her similar to other ladies of society! The concern in her eyes and tender regard for the boy set her apart from the rest of the world—Henry included.
“Ah, Lady Ravenwell. How pleasant to see you.”
Charlotte could always be relied upon. Henry nodded in her direction, then turned his attention on his wife. Jeanette gave him a quick, tight smile before she sat at the opposite end of the table.
“Where’s the bastard?” Lady Anne whispered. To his credit, Lord Almondbury shushed her.
Metal clattered against porcelain. Jeanette leaned forward, her fork resting on her plate.
“I didn’t catch what you said, Lady Anne. Would you be so kind as to repeat it?”
No answer was forthcoming.
“Never mind,” Jeanette continued, “let me enlighten you all.”
She pushed back her chair and stood. With the automatic reaction of male aristocracy, the men moved to stand likewise, but she waved her hand.
“Stay seated, please. Doubtless you’re wondering about the identity of the child my husband brought here last night. He’s his natural son.”
A few gasps rippled along the table, female sensibilities unable to withstand such brutal honesty.
“His mother is dead,” she continued, “so he’s my son now. His name is Edward, and he’ll join us for breakfast later. Before he arrives, if any of you have anything to say or ask about him, please do so now.”
A few of the men shook their heads. Undeterred, Lady Anne spoke up.
“Might you explain how he came to be here?”
The woman had gone too far. Henry rose from his seat.
“Jeanette…”
“No, Henry, I can explain. The boy is, after all, my responsibility.”
Jeanette turned her gaze to Lady Anne. “You’re a married woman, are you not? Then unless your unfortunate husband is overly squeamish, I’m sure you understand the process by which a child enters the world without my having to draw a diagram for you.”
Lady Anne’s face turned a shade of puce and she coughed nervously. “I have no idea of what you speak, Lady Ravenwell.”
