by Noël Cades
Marcus stood in the library, awaiting his "ungovernable" ward, as his aunt had described her. In her all-female household, Hortensia considered the library to be the most masculine of settings. It was the nearest room she had to a gentleman's study, and therefore the most proper setting for the interview.
Waiting there, Marcus found himself wishing he might instead be in his own library at Southwell. If he could not be in Spain, he would most prefer to be at his country estate. It had been sorely neglected by him of late.
He had absolutely no idea how he was supposed to deal with his ward. He had never been faced with having to reprimand a young woman before. Berating a man under his command, even ordering a serious miscreant to be flogged, was one thing. But a different approach would doubtless be required here.
A fire had been lit for him and Marcus poked at the logs, wanting something to do. As he did so, there was a knock at the door.
"You may come in," he called out.
He stood, and watched as the door opened and a figure entered.
He was quite taken aback. His ward - for he supposed it must be she - was draped in some bizarre black veil. Was she in mourning? Was there some disfigurement? His aunt had never indicated anything of the sort.
"I take it that you are my ward, Jemima Carlow?"
"I am, my lord." There was something unusual about her voice. It sounded muffled, perhaps by the veil.
"Is there some reason you veil yourself? Do you suffer an affliction, or a malady to the complexion?" Marcus had seen men and women ravaged by smallpox. He hoped it might not be this, for that was a cruel fate for anyone, let alone a young girl.
"No, my lord. It is that I mourn the distress I have caused you all, and have too much shame to show my face."
Something began ticking in the back of Marcus's mind at this odd little speech. He found he did not believe a word of it. The voice too. There was something…
"Remove your veil."
"I cannot."
There was steel in his tone. Not at her refusal so much as the terrible realisation that was dawning upon him. "Remove your veil at once."
The girl's hands went to the fabric and the stuff was lifted off and over her head.
Chapter 12
There she stood, paler and more fearful looking than he remembered, but unmistakably the Lady Incognita, or Lady Julia.
Marcus was overcome with a violent melange of emotions. The first, though he quickly fought it down, was an immediate surge of relief and joy at seeing his mysterious dance partner again. After his increasing disappointment at her sudden vanishing, and his growing frustration at her continued absence, he felt a brief joy at beholding her once more.
But this was rapidly replaced by shock and fury, and a sense of outrage that he had been deceived. He was humiliated: she had taken him for a fool.
At the same time he also felt horror at how young she looked. He recalled her actual age from the letter she had written him. When they had met in London, he had assumed her to be several years older. He had danced with her, even kissed him. A mere girl from the schoolroom! How had he managed to let himself be taken for such a fool?
For some moments he could not speak, while she stood there. Any other girl might have hung her head and cast her eyes down. But his ward kept her silvery eyes fixed upon him, her bearing upright and her chin tilted, albeit with apprehension across her features.
Finally Marcus spoke. "You knew who I was, then, and sought to trick me in some way?"
"No, my lord."
He was tempted to disbelieve her, but the wide eyes and pale complexion spoke her fear. Marcus, from years of diplomacy, was adept at distinguishing falsehood from truth.
"Yet you did find it out."
"As soon as I learned of your identity, I left London at once and hastened back here," she told him.
"You had had no notion of who I was? No one had told you?" He found this hard to believe. Surely someone would have told her? As little as he liked to mix in society, his identity was well known.
"No, my lord. I was both horrified and dismayed when I made the discovery."
Marcus might almost have laughed at the irony. Any other woman would surely have been delighted to discover that her dancing partner was none other than the Earl of Southwell. Yet before him stood the one female in the world to whom his identity represented disaster.
"How did you contrive to embroil your chaperone in this charade? Or was she another unknowing victim of your scheme?"
Jemima thought of dear Miss Berystede and how kind and courteous she had been to both Kitty and herself. Deceiving that lady was her greatest source of regret. Miss Berystede would be utterly horrified, she thought, to have been an unwitting accomplice to the escapade. "She did not know," Jemima confessed.
Marcus was feeling frustrated, fighting emotions that ill became a guardian. He half-wished she would put on her veil again, for looking upon her aroused images of their former encounter that he urgently needed to suppress. To quell them, he adopted a more authoritative tone.
"What possessed you to carry out such an infamous act?"
Others might have cowered or at least lowered their gaze at such a charge, but Jemima looked directly into her guardian’s eyes. "I was tired of the schoolroom, as I wrote to you in my letter. My dearest friend was to have her first Season, and wished me for a companion." Then she felt bad at having implicated Kitty, even though she had come up with the plan. "Though it was all my idea," Jemima added.
"And Lord Dalrymple of Dublin? I take it that no such gentleman exists?"
"He does not, my lord."
Marcus was surprised to feel a sense of relief at this. He had felt, despite himself, a not inconsiderable sense of jealousy towards his unknown rival.
Rival! How could he even be thinking in such absurd terms?
There was only one thing to be done, of course. Marcus had come to this conclusion as soon as he recognised her. "Since you clearly regard yourself as ready to leave the schoolroom, it would seem that the most appropriate situation for you is marriage."
The girl looked absolutely stricken. "Oh no, my lord, I beg you, not that! Truly, I am not at all ready for that."
Marcus was irked. Considering his proclaimed eligibility as a potential husband, he was confounded by her rejection. She was young, certainly, but she had put up no resistance to his previous advances.
"Given your conduct towards me, I should consider you to be more than ready."
Her face flamed at this, but still she maintained her composure. "It was not my conduct alone, my lord,” she pointed out.
The truth of this was a barb to Marcus, but he gritted his teeth. "I was misled into believing you to be an engaged woman, long out of the schoolroom."
"Is it customary, then, for a gentleman to - " Jemima could not bring herself to say "kiss" or "embrace" - "comport himself as you did, with an engaged woman?"
"That is by the by. You were not an engaged woman, were you? But since you chose to assume such a role, I see no reason why you should not now adopt it for real."
Jemima paled. "I could not bear it. I would rather enter a convent. Aunt Harlington has mentioned such. I am sure that I could live a very noble and dutiful life as a nun."
Remembering the flash in her eyes as she danced with him, and the way she had melted into his embrace, not to mention the obstinacy in her expression now, Marcus doubted this very much. But that she should wish to be a nun, rather than his wife! "Regardless, you shall be married. There is no other option."
His ward grew even whiter. "Please, my lord, you must reconsider. I am sure it is the very greatest honour to receive his proposal, as Aunt Harlington has frequently told me. But I know that I could not make Sir Hubert Frobisher a good wife. We would both be very unhappy."
Marcus was momentarily confused as to why his ward was suddenly talking about Sir Hubert. Then it dawned on him, as he recalled his conversation with Hortensia and her absurd notion that the girl might marry their elderly
neighbour.
Jemima had mistaken his meaning. She thought that he intended for her to marry that man, rather than himself. As if he would condemn any woman to such a match! Let alone with his own desire for her. Marcus nearly laughed and was about to correct her, when some devilry overtook him.
He regarded his ward: the glitter of defiance in her eyes, the rebellious tilt of her chin amid her fear. He saw that she would need to be conquered utterly, were he ever to regain - or rather gain - any ascendancy over her. Were he to take a wife, he had always imagined some compliant woman, who would manage his household and leave him free to carry out his usual business.
Just looking upon Jemima brought such a rush of memory and heat to his loins that Marcus suspected she would rapidly be his undoing, were he not to rediscover his self-control. As it was he had half a notion to crush her in his arms at that very moment and mete out a very specific form of punishment upon her.
So Marcus decided it would be in his own best interests to let his ward deceive herself upon the subject of matrimony a little longer. Let the girl imagine that she were to become the next Lady Frobisher, while he instead moulded her into his future countess.
"Nonetheless, it will be so,” he stated. “It is time that you reconciled yourself to this prospect. You may close the books of your schoolroom lessons and embark upon marriage lessons. The sooner you are prepared for the happy state of matrimony that is to be your future, the better."
"O, but I beg you, my lord…"
"Enough. Return to your room and we will speak further on the morrow. I have some other business to attend to."
Hearing the finality in her guardian’s tone, Jemima dared to protest no further. Feeling as though she were caught in a hideous nightmare, she fled.
Chapter 13
Marcus was already feeling a twinge of remorse for sending his ward away in such a fit of terror. He was not by nature a cruel man, but something about her drove the devil into him. He was unused to facing any kind of challenge to his command. Let alone from some chit of a girl, albeit a very ravishing one.
He reasoned, however, that his ruse might serve a dual purpose. Regardless of his strong desire to take her into his bed at the earliest opportunity, her age as well as his urgent business in Spain both called for patience.
The gossip of the ton might have been a third consideration, but Marcus had little regard for public opinion when it came to his personal conduct or affairs. Nonetheless he acknowledged that it would be a source of frenzied discussion in society if the Earl of Southwell were to suddenly whisk his ward from the schoolroom to his bedchamber. Let alone if she were also recognised as the mysterious Lady Julia. It would be catastrophic for both their reputations for this to be discovered, for it would appear as though he were complicit in the scheme and had brought her to London under a false identity for the purposes of seduction.
While Marcus did not care about his own reputation, he was aware how damaging it could be to a young woman to have her reputation ruined. The protection of his name might not be sufficient to prevent social ostracism. And while he had a vague notion that his future bride would essentially reside quietly at his country estate, there might be occasion when he desired her to be in town.
“I trust the girl was suitably contrite?” Hortensia Harlington asked as Marcus entered the drawing room following his interview with Jemima. There was an unpleasant gleam in her eye.
She did not particularly care for Jemima, Marcus realised, and now took no little relish in the girl’s plight.
It struck Marcus that he did not wish Hortensia to know his own intentions towards his ward. She would disapprove, not that it was any of her concern, and he wanted no interference.
Jemima spent the rest of the day confined to her room in a mix of misery and dread. Aunt Harlington had ordered that she remain there to “contemplate her wickedness and ingratitude”. This was less a punishment than a relief to Jemima, to be spared yet more condemnation. Though she agonised over the discussions her guardian must be having with Aunt Harlington over the nuptials they planned for her.
She spent the time writing a letter to Kitty, though little knew how she might send it.
Dearest Kitty,
Everything is worse and more wretched than you could possibly ever imagine. He has come, and has discovered everything. I tried to disguise myself but it was to no avail. He is angrier than you could possibly imagine. My aunt is also furious but I am well accustomed to her anger.
But what is to happen to me is so terrible that I can hardly bring myself to write it to you. He has ordered that I am to be married, Kitty, to Sir Hubert! It is a prospect I cannot even bear to contemplate. To be the wife of that horrid, leering man! I would sooner die. Perhaps I shall die, from the horror of it.
I can only hope that you are happy in London, dearest, and will never suffer such a dire fate as that for which I am bound. I long to hear your news but fear that any correspondence to me will be intercepted. I am kept as a prisoner in my aunt’s home.
Amid my despair I remain your dearest friend,
Jemima Carlow
She wrote a second missive to Miss Berystede, thanking her for her kind hospitality and expressing sincere regret over her hasty departure. She could not bring herself to repeat the lie. She had some idea that Miss Berystede would have suspected at least something was amiss. Certainly she had caught one or two glances of uncomfortably sharp intelligence from Ann Pargeter.
Later in the day Elsie, a winsome, fair-haired maid, brought Jemima up a tray. She frequently had a ringlet escaping her cap, much to Hortensia Harlington’s disapproval, but Jemima liked her. She had also ascertained that Elsie had an understanding with a young man who worked down in the village, for she had seen them exchanging words once or twice.
Jemima picked up a blue ribbon from her dressing table. “This ribbon would become you very well, would it not? It quite matches your eyes,” she told Elsie.
The maid flushed, for she had noticed the ribbon herself, but could do no more than covet such fine fripperies. “It is indeed a pretty colour, miss.”
“Why don’t you take it?” Jemima offered. “You might wear it the next time you meet with John. And if you do, you might also be so kind as to take this for me.” She held out her letter to Kitty. “It is not something I wish to trouble my aunt with. I cannot frank it, but if it can be delivered by hand to Elstone Court, they can send it on from there.”
Elsie glanced uneasily at the letter as she received it from Jemima. She was aware that Miss Carlow was in some kind of disgrace, and to take the letter would be in violation of her employer’s wishes. But she was a kind-hearted girl, and felt sympathy for another young woman suffering under the harsh command of Miss Harlington. Miss Carlow was as subject to that hard woman’s rule as any servant. She hesitated, but perhaps reassured by the correspondent being “Miss Catherine Elstone” rather than a gentleman, agreed to take it.
It was the one moment of relief that Jemima experienced that day. As she gazed through her window at the twilight sky fading into darkness, the image of that furious chiselled face returned to her. And she shivered: both at the memory of his rage, and the memory of how those lips had once felt on hers.
The next day was Sunday. Marcus stood in the hallway as an uncharacteristically meek and pale-faced Jemima appeared, ready for church. Hortensia Harlington was prepared to release Jemima from her confinement for this one outing. After all, if ever her soul were in need of repentance, it was now.
Jemima was clad in her demure Sunday gown, made of a drab, brown fabric. Aunt Harlington had done her duty by Jemima in ensuring that her charge always had clothes of suitable quality and condition. Anything worn or threadbare was given away. But she had always insisted on the plainest of garments for the young woman, believing fripperies and fancy falfals to be the downfall of a woman’s sense and modesty.
When it came to her Sunday gown, this was less a concern than a relief for Jemima. Anything to aver
t Sir Hubert’s leering eye from the opposite pew could only be welcomed. Today however, despite her disgrace and her guardian’s ill opinion of her - or perhaps because of it - she wished that she might have had something more becoming to attire herself in. She remembered how the Earl of Southwell had once looked upon her, and the contrast with his regard now was humbling and humiliating.
For his part, Marcus might also have been glad of the high-necked brown frock that would have transformed the loveliest chit into a drab. Except rather than distract him from his physical urges, it only served to remind him of the soft curves that lay concealed beneath. He felt a strong desire to rip the damn garment off her.
It was going to take all his resolve to carry out the lesson he planned to teach her.
The party from Harlington House walked in silence to church. It had rained earlier that morning and though the drizzle had ceased, the sky was still leaden and overcast. No joy lay ahead for Jemima. Usually she had the pleasure of seeing Kitty and conversing with her afterwards, but even that was to be denied her today.
Hortensia Harlington led the way into church and they took their seats along the hard, wooden pew. Jemima was seated between her aunt and her guardian, and his proximity was giving her extremely unholy sensations. His scent mingled with the faded incense of the church, and she had a fleeting vision of what it might be like to stand before a man such as the Earl of Southwell at the altar, rather than the dreaded Sir Hubert.
She had done everything to avoid looking in the direction of Sir Hubert’s pew, hoping beyond hope that he had stayed away that day. Knowing that they were to force her to marry him made his presence even more unbearable to her.
Marcus noticed that his ward seemed especially subdued, though it little lessened the effect she had on him. Being only inches away from a girl he had previously taken in his arms and embraced, and having to focus his attention on prayers and psalms while he wished to enact certain verses from Song of Songs, was an ordeal. To distract himself he cast an eye around the congregation.