by M. C. Beaton
Her partner was young Lord Fitzwilliam, a dashing exquisite who usually only favored beauties of the first stare with his attentions. He danced smoothly and expertly, chatting amiably when the movement of the dance brought them together. He gradually grew a little piqued. The Season’s newly risen star seemed unaware of his condescension, replying only in monosyllables to all his wittiest sallies. When the dance came to an end, and he was allowed that very English privilege of walking about the floor with her until the beginning of the next dance, he asked her flatly, “I fear you are not enjoying the evening or my company either, Lady Challenge.”
Her gray eyes flew up to his face in startled wonder and dismay. “I am so sorry,” said Mary contritely. “I am tired and my feet hurt. I would normally be extremely flattered that you should single me out for such distinguished notice, my lord, but I fear I would rather be home in bed.”
Lord Fitzwilliam laughed appreciatively, long and loudly, drawing interested stares from all corners. “By Jove,” he gasped at last. “Brummell was right. You are an original. I declare, honesty shall be the latest fashion.”
And Mary, who knew she had said nothing witty, extraordinary, or funny was left to stare after him in a bewildered way as she was led off by her next partner. Lord Fitzwilliam hastened to tell a highly embellished story of Mary’s honesty.
His group of exquisites were delighted. Honesty became the new thing. People began to complain of their corns, their disordered livers and their tight corsets. One young fashionable aspirant became so carried away by this new vogue that he told the bewildered Duchess of Pellicombe that her ball was “curst flat” and got ordered home by the duke.
After the next dance, Mary glanced at her card and saw with relief that it was to be another waltz. She could rest and find out how the stalwart Biggs was faring with the dowagers. She was relieved to see that, since her husband’s arrival, Biggs had opened an enormous ostrich fan in front of his face and kept it there.
“My dance I think,” came a well known voice. Her husband stood looking down at her. Beside him was the slightly flustered Duchess of Pellicombe who was still wondering what had gone wrong with her ball that people should keep complaining so. “The Duchess has given us permission to waltz,” added Hubert gently. “By the way, I trust you did not come unescorted.”
“Indeed no,” said the Duchess before Mary could reply. “A most exceptionable lady. Very grande dame. The Marquise Elvira Dobones deLorca y Viedda y Crummers, no less.”
“The what?” Hubert’s eyes raked the line of chaperones. “You must present me, Mary. Where did you find this lady?”
“I m-met her in Brussels after you had g-gone,” lied Mary wildly. “B-but I want to waltz, Hubert. I shall introduce you afterwards.”
As they moved about the room, Mary tried to stand on tiptoe so that she could signal over Hubert’s shoulder to warn Biggs. But Biggs had disappeared.
Then Mary suddenly saw Biggs. He was dancing with the elderly Colonel Fairfax and, as the ill-assorted couple drifted past, Mary heard Biggs say in a high falsetto voice, “Oh, ain’t you the one, Colonel. You must be a fair old rip!”
Mary closed her eyes and Hubert looked down at her curiously. “Feeling faint?” he asked.
“Y-yes,” gasped Mary. “Take me home, Hubert.”
“So I shall. Directly after you have introduced me to your Marquise.”
“She’s… she’s gone,” squeaked Mary.
The dance came to a stop.
“I say, Challenge,” roared Colonel Fairfax. “Want you to meet this splendid lady. Fine woman, damme. The Marquise de something or other Crummers. Sorry, ma’am. Never could get my tongue round those names.”
“Call me Elvira,” simpered Biggs awfully.
Hubert made a low bow. “You bear a startling resemblance to an old friend of mine, Marchese,” he said, staring into those boot-button eyes.
Biggs rapped his lordship painfully across the knuckles with the sticks of his large fan. “I declare you’re flirting with me, my lord,” he leered.
Hubert’s face went rigid with distaste. “Your imagination does you credit, madam,” he said. “Come Mary.”
But Mary had to be surrendered to her next partner and went off with many an anguished look towards Biggs. But Biggs’s familiarity with Hubert had done its work. Lord Challenge had privately damned the Marquise as a pushing vulgarian—worse than Mrs. Witherspoon—and did not look at her again.
He propped his broad shoulders against a paneled wall and waited for the dance to end. Then he would take Mary home. She did indeed look white and strained.
He felt a gentle tug at his sleeve and found himself looking down into the lovely face of Clarissa. “I must talk with you, Hubert,” she said urgently.
“Is it very important?” said Hubert, his eyes never leaving his wife’s slim figure.
“Very,” she whispered. “Please Hubert. Where we can be private.”
“Oh very well,” he said reluctantly.
He led her out of the ballroom and across the hall and pushed open the door to the library.
“Now Clarissa…” he began impatiently, but she was in his arms, her own wrapped tightly round his neck and her thinly clad body pressed hard against the length of his own, awakening reluctant memories of old desires.
“What is all this?” he asked huskily.
“I want you,” she said in a low voice, her mouth inches from his own.
Hubert forgot about Mary, he forgot that Clarissa was engaged to another man. It seemed to him that since that terrible battle he had been living each minute of the day as it came along, glad only to be alive with all that hell and carnage behind him.
He bent his head and explored her mouth, his mind beginning to register with reluctant surprise that nothing was happening to his senses.
“Oh, please Major Godwin. Do find Hubert for me,” said Mary her voice breaking on a sob.
The ball had turned into a glittering nightmare for her. Her disjointed, murmured comments were treated as the height of wit. Mr. Brummell had made her the fashion, and London society would not allow her to be anything else.
“I shall fetch the Marquise,” said the Major.
Mary looked wildly towards the refreshment room. Biggs stood with Colonel Fairfax at his side. He was surrounded by a court of elderly admirers. He bent his great turbaned head and began recounting something in a low voice. His audience listened intently and then burst out into roars of salacious laughter. Mary shuddered. She remembered that her maid Marie Juneaux had told her indignantly that the butler, when he was in his cups, had the bad habit of regaling the servants’ hall with a stream of warm anecdotes. And Biggs’s pudgy gloved hand was tightly holding onto a large bumper of champagne.
“No, leave her,” said Mary. “Just take me to Hubert.”
“He left with Lady Clarissa. That is he left the room,” said Major Godwin pulling feverishly at his sideburns.
“Oh,” said Mary in a small voice.
“Look here,” said the Major awkwardly. “Hubert’s the soul of honor. We’ll look about. Bound to be somewhere around.”
They entered the hall in time to witness the arrival of Viscount Peregrine St. James, Clarissa’s fiancé.
Lord Peregrine looked as unappealing as ever, despite the magnificence of his evening dress. His great hooked nose seemed almost to reach his blue chin.
“Where’s Clarissa?” he demanded.
“We’re just looking for her,” said Major Godwin so ingenuously that Mary felt a sudden stab of sympathy for Lucy. “She’s with Lord Hubert.”
“Is she, by God,” said Lord Peregrine unpleasantly.
“I think perhaps I shall not trouble Hubert…” began Mary weakly, but Lord Peregrine had turned his great head and summoned one of the footmen. “In the library, eh?” he said after a low-voiced consultation with the servant. “Follow me!”
They trailed awkwardly behind him as he threw open the library door.
Clarissa had bee
n disappointed and furious at Hubert’s coldness. She heard the steps outside, and thinking that with any luck it might be Mary, she threw herself again into Hubert’s surprised arms and pressed her mouth hotly against his own.
The library door swung open.
“You harlot!” said Lord Peregrine thickly. “I’ll horsewhip you.”
“Can I depend on that?” asked Clarissa, her green eyes alive with amusement. “Perry darling. How marvellous to see you.”
She ran forward lightly and tried to embrace him but he pushed her aside.
“I demand an explanation, Challenge!” his voice grated.
“I haven’t got one,” said Hubert lazily, although he looked past Lord Peregrine to where Mary stood, clutching Major Godwin’s arm. “Do you demand satisfaction?”
Lord Peregrine flushed. He knew Lord Challenge to be one of the most notable shots in England and a fine swordsman. “Don’t talk fustian,” he blustered. “I shall ask Clarissa.”
“Do that,” said Hubert with insolent contempt. “And now if you will all forgive me, I will take my wife home.”
“No,” said Mary in a sudden burst of rage. “Major Godwin shall take me home.”
The Major looked awkwardly at Hubert, but at that moment Lucy’s tinkling laugh sounded from the ballroom. “Oh, my dear sir, what husband?” she said.
“Yes, I’ll take you home,” said Major Godwin.
“It’s my wife, Freddie,” said Lord Hubert lazily.
“I shall not interfere between man and wife,” said the large Major stiffly.
There was a commotion behind them as the Marquise sailed into the hall with her entourage. “Oh, there you is, my pet,” called Biggs cheerfully.
“Oh, Bi… I mean, Marquise. Take me home.”
“Home it is,” said the Marquise, the boot-button eyes darting from Hubert’s mocking face, to the Major’s stern one, to Mary’s pleading eyes burning in her white face.
The Marquise gathered Mary in one plump arm. “Come along precious,” she said in a gruff voice. “Men, my love, are all a lot of rots!” And with that the Marquise bore her charge off into the night.
“Well, I’ll be demned,” said Colonel Fairfax.
“Probably,” said Hubert, staring with hard eyes in the direction his wife had gone.
The Duchess of Pellicombe came sailing up. “I trust you gallant gentlemen are enjoying my little affaire?” she called gaily. “What think you, Lord Challenge?”
“I’m getting out of here,” said Hubert still staring at the door. “This is a madhouse—a veritable madhouse!”
“Oh!” wailed the poor Duchess. “Whatever have I done?”
But Lord Hubert had gone.
He walked through the pouring rain to cool his fast-rising temper. By the time he reached St. James’s Square, his reason had taken over and he was feeling heartily sorry for Mary. She must consider him the worst sort of rake. She must be crying her eyes out. Poor thing. And she had looked so pretty and, dammit, he was proud of her. There might be more to this marriage business than he had imagined. He would take her in his arms. He would tell her about Clarissa. He would convince her that it was all over. Finished and dead. Feeling very noble he let himself in with his own door key and hastened up the steps to her room.
Empty.
It was four in the morning. Where could she be?
He ran down the stairs to the hallway again and was about to ring the bell, when he heard the sound of laughter from the servants quarters. He pushed open the green baize door and walked lightly down the shallow steps, his dancing pumps making no sound upon the stairs.
He pushed open the kitchen door.
His wife and Biggs were seated on either side of the kitchen table with two empty champagne bottles between them, laughing uproariously. Biggs’s face had a scrubbed look and his hair was unpowdered, and his livery looked as if it had been thrown onto his stocky body from a long way off.
Both saw Hubert at the same time. Biggs leapt to his feet and stood swaying slightly. Mary giggled and hiccupped, and the tighter and sterner her husband’s face became the more she giggled.
“You, madam, are drunk,” said Hubert furiously. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Why not ask Clarissa?” giggled Mary.
“Biggs, you are dismissed,” said Lord Hubert, his eyes glittering with rage.
“Very good, my lord,” said Biggs woodenly.
“Shan’t!” said Mary, leaping to her feet, staggering wildly and ending up falling against the butler. “I made Biggsy drink with me. Made him, d’ye hear? I ordered him. Stuffed shirt. Stuffed stupid lecherous owl.”
“My apologies Biggs,” said Hubert coldly, not noticing in his rage that his butler could hardly stand. “I understand you were obeying orders. I shall take her ladyship upstairs. Come, Mary.”
“Shan’t. Stay with Biggsy. Only friend I’ve got. Biggsy.”
Hubert picked her up and threw her over his shoulder and marched off up the stairs, not releasing her until he reached her bedroom where he deposited her unceremoniously on her bed and stood looking down at her.
“Pig,” said his wife pleasantly. “Lecherous piggy-wiggy-wig.”
“I shall talk to you in the morning, madam,” said Hubert. “Get your clothes off. I do not want your maid to find you in this state.”
“What will the servants say,” exclaimed Mary with an awful titter. “Pig,” she added flatly. “Owl. Greater stuffed owl.”
He deftly removed her clothes until she was naked. She lay back against the lace pillows with her hands locked behind her head, and stared blandly up at him with drunken unconcern while the candlelight flickered over her body.
It was a slim body with skin like satin, and small high breasts. He felt his pulses begin to quicken. He knelt beside the bed and put a hand over her breast. She studied the hand, with its large sapphire ring, with clinical interest and then yawned. “It should be through your nose,” she said clearly. “That’s where pigs wear them.”
His hand moved gently and slowly over her breast and he bent his mouth to hers, kissing her long and deeply and feeling waves of almost suffocating passion rise to his brain.
But the passion was all his own. When he at last removed his mouth, it was to find his wife had fallen asleep. He lifted her gently up, and covered her with the blankets and then went slowly downstairs to the kitchen.
Biggs’s hair looked wilder than ever, for he had guessed there was a confrontation to come and had gone and put his head under the pump.
“Well Biggs,” said Hubert. “How much did my lady drink?”
“Two bottles,” said Biggs in a low voice. “Said she needed a laugh.” His little eyes peered shrewdly at his master. “Didn’t stop ’er my lord for she was a-crying when she came in.”
“Very good, Biggs,” said Hubert curtly. “I understand in this case. But my lady is not to be found in such a situation again. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, my lord. Very good, my lord.”
Hubert stalked off up the stairs and Biggs sank wearily down and rested his head on the table. What a night!
Chapter 5
Mary crept slowly downstairs in the morning. She felt strung up and nervous. The storm had blown itself out and yellow watery sunlight blazed in at the windows, hurting her eyes and making her head ache. Her mouth was dry as dust and she longed for a cup of tea, since the thought of her usual morning drink of chocolate made her feel acutely ill.
Memories of the end of the evening came to her in bright flashes of color interspersed with long vistas of cloudy gray. She remembered arriving home tearful and distressed. She remembered begging Biggs to stay with her for a little and Biggs, who was cheerfully drunk, suggesting they should repair to the kitchens after he had changed, in case Lord Hubert should find them. After the first bottle of champagne, she remembered talking long and earnestly to Biggs about love and life. After the second, Biggs’s stories had seemed excruciatingly funny, and after that she
could not remember a thing.
Tea! Fragrant Bohea in a thin cup drunk in a cool, silent room would put her to rights. She pushed open the door of the breakfast room.
Her husband was seated at the end of the table reading his newspaper. Biggs was not on duty. She ordered tea in a faint voice and he lowered his newspaper and looked at her. Mary had never realized how much noise a freshly ironed morning paper could make, and put her hand to her brow.
“That is a very becoming dress, my love,” commented her husband. “Gray with touches of pink. It matches your eyes.”
“Very funny,” said Mary sourly. “Must you crackle and rustle so, Hubert?”
“I am not crackling and rustling,” he said mildly. “You are suffering from the effects of too much champagne.”
“Fustian,” said Mary, raising her cup and drinking thirstily. “Pray return to your paper, sir. I am not in the mood for conversation.”
Last night she had been dying by inches because of love and jealousy. Now she simply wished he would go away. His strong aura of sexuality seemed to fill the room to suffocation. Nonetheless, some imp prompted her to add: “Or perhaps you have some pressing social business… like entertaining Clarissa.”
“I am glad you reminded me,” he said putting down his paper. “I am driving with Clarissa this afternoon.”
“You sit there as cool as… as cool as… as… as anything and tell me that you’re going to drive out with that trollop!”
“Now listen to me, Mary,” said Hubert. “I had a certain involvement with Clarissa before our marriage. It is finished, over and done. I wish to make it quite clear to Lady Clarissa that there must be no repetition of last night. I am doing it for your sake.”
“Not for our sake?” said Mary, clutching the edge of the table.
“For our sake, then.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“If I returned your brand of trust, my dear, I would assume that you were hell-bent on setting up Freddie Godwin as a flirt.”
“Nonsense!”
“Exactly,” he said with infuriating calm. “I suggest you go and lie down and…”