The Lodestone

by Charlene Keel

  “Does no one here appreciate an artistic endeavor?” he asked mournfully. “I have genuine talent and I was simply expressing my divine right as a creator of beauty!”

  Lady Easton giggled and, making a hasty excuse, retired to the garden. When he could be sure his wife was out of earshot, Lord Easton exclaimed, “Artistic, my royal ass!” He turned to Drake and said in scandalous tones that did little to mask his pride in having such a virile offspring, “Do you know what this young rogue has done? He took it upon himself to illustrate in detail selected verses from the Song of Solomon!”

  “I opened to my beloved, but my beloved had withdrawn himself,” Garnett quoted with irreverent glee. “It was purely a religious endeavor, I tell you. I really do not see how the chancellor could have read anything else into it.”

  “Perhaps he would not have, sir!” Lord Easton said, trying unsuccessfully to repress his delight. “If it had not been his very proper niece with whom you chose to share this religious experience!”

  “Ah, yes . . . such a pious girl,” Garnett acceded cheerfully. “So devout that she shared several of my sketches with a young Italian count she was trying to seduce!”

  “If that is your only defense,” Sir Laurence replied, “’tis a damn poor one!”

  The room then filled with the deep, resonant laughter of the three men and Drake was inclined to forget his previous ire. After all, it had nothing to do with him. He was not one to indulge in the wasted effort of defending a woman’s honor—that was for young fools like Garnett.

  “I have an eye for fine art,” Drake volunteered when their mirth waned. “I would be happy to offer a critique of your work, sir.”

  This brought forth another gale of laughter, after which Garnett responded, “Pity! They confiscated my sketchbook, you see. I rather suspect they have sent it to Father as evidence of my transgressions. I do not believe for one instant it’s the week-old Herald he sequesters himself with in the library every night after dinner.”

  “Enough of this nonsense, now!” Sir Laurence ordered as his wife, holding a basket full of flowers, came back in to join them. “I’m sure Mr. Stoneham is eager for the inn and a comfortable bed.”

  “No more eager than every man jack of us, if it is adequately furnished!” retorted Garnett. “I understand there’s a pretty little French serving maid at the inn nowadays.”

  “Ah, but Desmond has taken that ’un for himself,” Lord Easton told his son. “Still, there’s nothing the man won’t wager for a good game. Now, you must be off if you’re to take Mr. Stoneham—”

  “Garnett cannot possibly return in time to change for dinner at Fox Hall,” Elizabeth interrupted. “And he promised to let nothing keep him away this time. Mr. Stoneham is welcome to stay the night at Easton Place.” She bent to brush her lips against Lord Easton’s brow and then she turned to their guest. “If you don’t mind entertaining yourself, sir, as we’ll likely return quite late.”

  “It would suit me perfectly, milady,” Drake answered smoothly. “Sleep is the only recreation that appeals to me at the moment.”

  “I’ll have Martha prepare a room for you.” Her response was soft, like a caress. “Edwards will be in soon to take you up.”

  “Splendid!” Garnett beamed at Drake. “I’ll show you to the inn first thing after breakfast, then, and perhaps tomorrow evening you’ll be up for a game or two. Mother doesn’t approve of gambling at home, fashionable as it is. How long do you propose to stop here?” he asked amiably, as if he had known Drake all his life. “I warn you, time can drag slowly in the country for one accustomed to the excitement of London or Paris.”

  “The country also suits me, for the present,” Drake replied, smiling in spite of the contempt he felt.

  “Well, we’re delighted you’ve come,” Garnett said, rising to kiss his mother on the cheek. “See to your flowers, m’dear. I’ll go and tell Martha to make a room ready.”

  Here’s another one, Drake thought as Garnett departed. Another young fool who simply could not wait to part with his money—although Drake rather liked this one. Playing games of chance with a dandy like Garnett would be almost immoral, and less trouble than relieving a babe of sweetmeats. That set him to thinking about the girl, Cleome.

  “’Tis settled then,” Lord Easton agreed as his wife leaned on the back of his chair and pressed her breasts against him, looking over his shoulder at Drake. “Mr. Stoneham, I will speak to my solicitor about the matter of a house to let. If there’s one hereabout, he’ll know. By the time you return from Newcastle, I should have some news for you.”

  “I would be most grateful,” Drake said, his eyes drifting up to meet Lady Easton’s brazen, inviting gaze.

  **

  In the carriage, on the way home from Fox Hall, Elizabeth Easton watched her husband sleep. It was a clear, moonlit night and his baldness shone in the darkness like a giant pearl. He had his head thrown back against the cushion and his mouth gaped open as he snored. Dinner with Sir Rudgeley and his large, extended family had seemed interminable and she’d been quite as bored as Garnett. She couldn’t blame him for bolting as soon as it was over, and she wished heartily that she could have gone with him to Brighton’s pub in Oakham, instead of back to Easton Place. She should have known the clever lad had a reason for taking his own horse rather than going in the coach with them.

  Longing more than ever for her lost youth, she sighed, and it was heavy and deep, reaching all the way down to her soul. She was not an old woman—she’d been but seventeen when Garnett was born and he’d just turned twenty-one—but she sometimes felt as old as Sir Laurence. It was a comfort that her mirror told her she looked younger than she felt. She hadn’t loved her husband when she married him. Her dear, impoverished papa had told her such a match was necessary to the family’s survival—that Laurence adored her and she would be a titled lady; so she had done her duty. Although three decades older than she, Laurence Easton had been vital and energetic then, and the fondness she had for him had grown into love. She had been a good wife, with only an occasional tryst to relieve her boredom; and she was always discreet. The last thing she wanted to do was bring heartache or dishonor to her husband.

  It wasn’t boredom, however, that was tormenting her tonight, and making her so restless. Worried about Laurence’s drinking, his many unwise investments and his penchant for gambling, she had persuaded him, in the only way she knew, to leave Sir Rudgeley’s when their host suggested a round of whist. Slipping her arms about Laurence’s neck, she had whispered seductively of the delights that would be his in their bedroom, if he would take her home before the hour was late.

  How she hated the thought of his clumsy pawing, for though he still possessed the desire, his ability to act upon it and to satisfy her own had long since abated. But, as always, she would do whatever she must to protect what was left of Garnett’s inheritance from her husband’s love of gambling.

  She thought again of their unexpected guest, and she knew the true origin of her discontent. Drake Stoneham’s reputation had preceded him to England and he was the topic of conversation almost everywhere she went. He was a hero in the war against Napoleon, and he was a rake of the highest order. His success with women was as celebrated as his business acumen and his skill with cards and dice, which had brought him a fortune many times over. Somehow, he had found his way to her door, and she had never encountered anyone like him.

  He was breathtaking, with a careless, off-hand charm that ignited a fire in her loins. Tall and broad-shouldered, he was also blessed with an abundance of black hair and wide-set hazel eyes. A strong, square jaw underlined his coarse, black beard and his full, firm lips were made for kissing. She wondered if he would stay in the country long enough for her to see what there was to support his reputation as a lover; and at that moment, she made up her mind to seduce him. After all, if she must submit to her husband’s feeble attempts at lovemaking, she deserved a modicum of pleasure, wherever she could get it. But Mr. Stoneham, s
he knew, would not require seduction. He was a worldly, albeit self-made, gentleman, one who appreciated fast horses and beautiful women. And had he not answered the question in her eyes that afternoon with his own smoldering, silent interest? She had but to let him know she was available and he would be hers. Whether for just a sultry summer season or an extended affair of the heart remained to be seen—but she would have him, at least once.

  Laurence stirred and moaned, still deep in slumber; and Elizabeth sighed again. She would have the devil’s own time getting him up the stairs and into his bed.

  **

  Drake woke with a start, aware at once that there was someone else in the room. His hand closed around the dagger he kept in his boot by day and slept with under his pillow by night. Slowly, cautiously, he opened his eyes. He was not surprised to find Elizabeth Easton standing at the foot of the bed, her flaxen hair falling loose and free around her shoulders, the moonlight making her look eerily like a marble statue that had come to life. In the light of the candle she held, her delicate silk robe accented every lush curve. Silently, she lit the lamp on the chiffonier and blew out her candle. Then with her foot, she pushed a small rug against the base of the door, the better to conceal the light from any inquisitive, passing servant.

  He knew what she wanted. It wasn’t the first time a married lady had come, unannounced and uninvited, to his room; and they always wanted the same thing. He wondered if this one would require, as they usually did, a salve for her guilty conscience. He decided to play the game. Even though he was naked beneath the sheet, he leapt from the bed and grasped her arm, lifting his knife as if ready to attack an intruder. She gasped, as he’d known she would, and pressed her body against him.

  “Mr. Stoneham!” she protested in a throaty whisper. “Pray, do not harm me!”

  He released her and stepped away at once. “Pardon, milady. I didn’t know it was you.” He put the knife on the table beside the bed and turned back to face her.

  “It is I who must apologize, sir. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Her voice trembled as her gaze swept over his chest, and downward. He knew, for he had been told often enough, that women appreciated his physique. Allowing her to look only long enough to whet her appetite, he reached for the sheet and wrapped it about his waist.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Is it your husband? Is he ill?”

  “My husband is sleeping,” she replied. “Quite soundly. He is drunk and not even Gabriel’s trumpet could wake him. My son has gone to the pub in Oakham. I doubt he’ll be home before morning. The servants have all gone to bed. We are quite alone.”

  “What is it you want, milady?”

  “Just . . . to see that you are comfortable here.”

  “I sense there’s more to it, Elizabeth.” At his use of her name, she shrugged out of the silk robe, letting it fall to the floor so that she stood naked before him.

  “And I sense you know exactly what I want.” Her answer was bold, and he had to respect her honesty.

  In spite of his better judgment, her lush display made him hard. He’d been alone on the road too long. “This is how you would have me repay your husband’s hospitality, madam?” he asked.

  “No. It is how I would have you repay mine.”

  Before he would allow himself to touch her, he had to be as forthright as she. “My business and way of life prevent any kind of commitment,” he said. “I am not looking for a permanent liaison, milady.”

  “Nor am I,” she assured him, taking one of his large hands and placing it over her bare breast. “But surely, there is some comfort I can offer you, after the hardship of your travels.” As she placed his other hand on her other breast, he let the sheet slip to the floor and she gave a small, trembling sigh. “All I want is a brief respite from a routine that has grown tedious.”

  “I can offer no more than that,” he said huskily.

  “I love my husband and my position as his wife. I will never jeopardize that,” she purred, her voice sweet as warm honey. “But we both gain by an evening’s pleasure, with no one the wiser.”

  That was all he needed to hear. With his palms, he lightly caressed her breasts before letting his hands roam down to her waist, then her hips and thighs. Her breathing came faster as he gently moved her legs apart and with one long finger probed the furry shield of her sex. She was already wet with her passion, ready for him. Or, he thought scornfully, any other rogue who happened to be passing by.

  She turned her face up to him and pressed her lips to his, but he kissed her only once before lowering her to the bed. Without shame or hesitation, she wrapped her long legs around his waist and pushed herself against him wantonly. Had he not been so tight after his self-imposed celibacy, he would have turned away from her. But he was no better than she, he concluded; for she could have been any pretty plaything he chanced to meet in his travels.

  Still, there was something plaguing him. Something that had captured his mind and would not let it go, and it mystified him. He had always been able to take pleasure where he found it, to live in the moment, especially when a woman, married or not, offered herself so freely to him.

  But on this night, even as he watched the beautiful Lady Easton writhe and moan beneath him with the ecstasy inspired by his thrusting, his mind filled inexplicably with the vision of a beautiful girl on an amazing horse, and her wide, blue eyes, full, pink lips, and a tumble of copper curls that sparkled in the sun like precious rubies.

  Chapter Three

  Dew clung to the grass like bright crystal tears. Cleome inhaled deeply, trying to lose herself in the heady aroma of the wildflowers that dotted the banks of the stream. But again the memory of the tall stranger who had witnessed the scene at Easton Place the day before assaulted her. As if her humiliation on discovering she had lost her shoes was not enough to bear, he had returned her bonnet (which she’d also lost); and with amusement shining in his wide, dark eyes, he had helped her back onto her horse. A tremor quaked through her, causing her a moment of inexplicable breathlessness. Why thinking of him should cause such a pleasant, if unwelcome, sensation, she didn’t know; but she was determined not to let it interfere with her enjoyment of the beautiful morning.

  She loved the spring, with everything turning green and lush, and the colorful blossoms that always made her mother smile. Her mother still slept, untroubled by thoughts of the past and the confinement of an invalid’s bed.

  Ramona had always been frail and had become even more delicate over the winter. She had been ill, as Grandmamma Adelaide had scornfully put it, since Cleome’s unfortunate birth. Sometimes Ramona could sit propped on pillows or walk across the hall to the upstairs parlor while leaning on Cleome; but she ate little. Her poor shell of a body was fading almost as fast as her mind, from which lucid thoughts rarely emerged. Cleome had never known her mother to be radiant and healthy but with summer on the way, she hoped for some improvement.

  Old Sam’s shout rang out then, shattering the peaceful silence of the glade. “Will’m, ye’re a damfool!” It was followed by a splash, and a curse from the elderly groom. Cleome sighed. Young Sam would be busy with the horses or getting luggage ready for the coach; and her grandfather, who’d had too much to drink last night, might be more than Old Sam could handle. She had better go and see what she could do.

  “Next ye’ll be after swimmin’ the bloody Channel,” Old Sam yelled. When he stood aside, she saw her grandfather hanging over the watering trough, head and shoulders submerged. She dropped her flowers and trampling some of them, she ran to his aid. He came out of the water with as big a splash as he’d made going in, and he threw his head back, laughing and spouting water like a great sea monster. What was she to do with him, she wondered. She must convince him to settle down, just a bit; but she would never want him to be the way he was before her grandmother died—the reticent shell of a man forced to hide a cheerful, genial nature.

  A smile played at her lips and she felt only a little guilty that the thought of her
grandmother’s passing so lifted her spirits. Adelaide’s death had brought much relief to everyone at the Eagle’s Head, especially Cleome and her grandfather. These past two years, he had been like a man pardoned on the gallows steps. Only rarely when Grandmamma was alive had he shown Cleome his natural good humor. In the bustling tavern (of which he was proprietor as his father had been before him), in the family’s apartment within the inn, in the carriage on the way to church every Sunday, or anywhere Grandmamma happened to be, he had been serenely quiet, preferring to recede in peaceful isolation rather than tolerate her scolding if he grew “boorish and common.”

  But a week after her funeral, he’d poured himself a taste of the rich, dark ale he served, gotten roaring drunk, and then disappeared into the attic room with Jacqueline, the serving wench he’d hired a fortnight previous, straight off the boat from France. She spoke little English then; but she had no problem communicating with her employer, for they hadn’t come out of the attic room for several days.

  **

  Old Sam lifted William Desmond to unsteady feet and pushed him toward the back door that led into the kitchen. “Go on now,” he urged. “Have some of Mrs. Tibbits’s strong, black coffee. That’ll set ye straight.” The servant’s grin turned sheepish when he noticed Cleome standing there. The young mistress’ll have her hands full with her granda the day, he thought. Poor mite, an’ her alone now except for her ma, which was as good as alone, the way the woman was more out of this world than in it. He tried to stop smiling but he was glad to see a man finally give way to life, as his master had so recently done.

  “He’ll be all right,” Cleome said, picking up the basket and all the flowers that hadn’t been crushed. “He deserves it now and then, I suppose.”

  “Aye, miss. That he does,” Old Sam agreed. More than once, Lady Adelaide’s wrath had been visited upon his own gray head. But this one, young as she was, had wisdom beyond her years. It was a pleasure serving her in spite of her fatherless state, which she could not help. He cursed himself for following along with popular opinion. He for one believed it had been done right an’ all, but he couldn’t prove it any more than Miss Ramona had been able to, after Lady Adelaide had run Jimmy Parker away from these parts. An’ now it was too late, even if her da had come on the scene with a marriage certificate printed in gold and signed by King George himself. Miss Ramona had lost all interest in trying to prove she had indeed been married. She had never been a match for her ma and folks round about Oakham had their own opinion about her doubtful right to the name she claimed for herself and Cleome.