Salt Bride

by Lucinda Brant

  “How could I marry another when you’ve utterly ruined me…”

  Why had she chosen that moment, while they were in the throws of passionate love making on their wedding night, to remind him of the past? Was she intent on emasculating him for defiling her? So be it. He would stop. He would leave her dissatisfied. He should… But he was beyond the point of caring. All that mattered was fulfillment. His fulfillment. In the heat of the moment, in the heat that turned to anger mingled with a cock-throbbing need for physical gratification, all he cared about was filling her, his wife, with his seed, seed barren and wasted, but his seed as her husband. And when release finally came, when they tumbled off the precipice into blissful oblivion, he had the hollow satisfaction of hearing her splinter the cold night air with his Christian name.

  “You’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t,” was Jenkins the butler’s gloomy prediction. He yawned loudly. “What time is it? Three in the morning and not a minute less.”

  The Earl’s valet eyed him with drowsy resentment and again addressed the messenger. “How urgent is urgent?”

  The messenger from Audley Street shrugged. “Urgent. With respect, sir, at this late ’our, none of us are in a position to argue the meaning of the word.”

  The valet leaned his night-capped head back against the wall of the ill-lit servant passageway outside his master’s apartment and stared at the door opposite. Jenkins was right. He was damned either way. If he didn’t deliver Lady St. John’s message she would cause an almighty fuss and demand his immediate dismissal. If he did, and walked into his master’s bedchamber on this of all nights he was confident the Earl would dismiss him anyway. He was not a betting man but he was of the opinion that he would take his chances and incur Lady St. John’s wrath rather than disturb his master on his bridal night. Decided, he stepped away from the wall and snatched the sealed parchment from the messenger’s hand.

  “Tell your mistress her letter was delivered. I’ll see his lordship gets it.”

  The messenger shook his head. “Sorry, sir. I’m not to leave until I ’ave a reply.”

  “Then find yourself a nice corner to curl up in because you’ll be spending the night!” the valet hissed. “There’s no power on this earth that will see me walk through that door on this of all nights. It’s his lordship’s wedding night, for God’s sake!”

  The messenger grinned lewdly at the butler but Jenkins decided the lackey was becoming too familiar and needed putting in his place. “You heard Mr. Andrews. Find yourself a corner. His lordship can’t be disturbed.”

  The messenger looked from one to the other and shrugged, unperturbed. “Thing is, sirs, if I don’t get a reply within the ’our, her ladyship ’as threatened to come round ’ere ’erself on account of the fact that she don’t trust you lot ’ere. She said so ’erself. Tell ’em, she said, if I don’t get a reply from ’is lordship I’ll come round there and disturb ’im m’self. And you know she will.”

  Yes, Jenkins and Andrews knew very well of what Lady St. John was capable. As the widowed mother of the Earl’s heir, her ladyship frequently abused her position of influence. The valet wiped a hand across his dry mouth, and stared down at the sealed note.

  “What is so urgent Lady St. John requires the Earl’s presence in the middle of the night?”

  “Something about ’er boy vomitin’,” the messenger replied. “’is temperature is ’igh too and ’e’s delirious and wanting ’is Uncle Salt. Nothing or no one will calm the little master save ’is lordship’s presence.”

  The valet swore viciously under his breath. He knew the Earl was devoted to Lady St. John’s children. When his first cousin and best friend Lord St. John had tragically died from the smallpox four years ago the Earl had willingly taken on the role of substitute father to the St. John children. The valet knew his master had on occasion left the warmth of his bed in the middle of the night to pacify Lady St. John’s sickly son. But this night was different from all others and Andrews didn’t relish the task, in fact he wished he could avoid it, but knew that for wishful thinking.

  “Has a physician been called to the boy?” Andrews asked the messenger, feeling the noose of decision tightening about his neck. When the messenger nodded, he sighed, took from the butler his burning taper and went over to the closet door. “Give me a minute.”

  “So you’re going in there?” Jenkins asked with a trill of anticipation. He frowned and shook his head. “Courageous, Andrews. Very courageous.”

  The valet didn’t think so. He considered himself the greatest coward this side of the Thames. Heart beating against his chest he stood on the threshold of the cavernous bedchamber with burning taper in hand and listened for signs of life within. Thankfully the room was quiet now and still and all he could hear was the familiar sound of the crackling fire in the grate. It had been anything but quiet and still two hours ago.

  He was not a betting man but he would confidently stake a year’s wages on his lordship having vigorously consummated his marriage, and to the mutual satisfaction of both parties to the union. He put the taper on the table by the doorway, took two steps and trod on cloth. Curious, he scooped up the bundle under his foot and, holding it at arm’s length, realized he had in his hand a man and a woman’s nightshifts. His face burned with embarrassment, but he did what any good valet worth his coin would do: He folded the articles of clothing neatly and put them over his arm before approaching the four-poster bed in the light of the fire.

  Twelve years of service to the Earl had not prepared the valet for the novel experience of disturbing a newly married couple on their wedding night, but to his great surprise and relief the Countess was wide awake sitting on the edge of the bed, back up against a mahogany post, wrapped in a coverlet, her mass of shiny black curls tumbled about her shoulders. She was admiring the Earl while he slept sprawled out in the big bed, a tangle of sheet scarcely covering his sizeable manhood.

  Jane blushed rosily upon seeing the valet hovering in the shadows but made life easy for him by smiling and saying in a friendly whisper, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for her husband’s valet to disturb her on her wedding night, “Oh good, you found my shift. I did wonder where it had disappeared. I’ll put it on if you’ll just turn your back and then we’ll be comfortable.”

  Andrews did as requested, even going so far as to tiptoe across to a ribbon-back chair to one side of the fireplace where he had laid out one of the Earl’s silk banyans. He offered this to Jane, still with his back to her, hand thrust out behind him. She was so quiet, all he heard was the swishing of silk and before he knew what was happening the Countess appeared before him, the silk banyan wrapped tightly over her nightshift. The garment was ludicrously large on her, making her appear smaller and absurdly youthful. Andrews had the urge to offer his assistance in rolling up the sleeves so she could find her fingers. Of course he curbed the instinct, and when she moved away from the bed to the fireplace so they could talk without disturbing the slumbering nobleman, he made her an officious bow.

  “Please excuse this intrusion, my lady,” he stated, keeping his eyes lowered. “I would not have disturbed his lordship for the world except there is a matter of some delicacy that I am at a loss to know how to proceed without seeking his lordship’s opinion.”

  “It must be important indeed… I’m sorry, but I don’t believe I know your name?”

  “Andrews, my lady. It’s Aloysius Andrews, valet to his lordship. Your ladyship should address me as Andrews.”

  “Well, Andrews, as I am wide awake and willing to offer you my assistance, do we need to disturb his lordship?”

  The valet glanced over at the bed where the Earl slept soundly, then back at Jane’s big blue eyes that regarded him with frankness. Although he was unconvinced that this young bride would be a match for the social wiles of Lady St. John, she was, when all was said and done, the Countess of Salt Hendon, and that counted for everything in his books. So he told her his dilemma. Jane listene
d attentively and asked all the right questions, so that at the end of his diatribe, he felt he had such a sympathetic ear that he let down his guard and confessed his real fear: that the Earl would dismiss him, and if his lordship didn’t Lady St. John would certainly have him tossed out into the streets.

  “Do you truly believe his lordship a fickle nobleman capable of dismissing his most trusted servant after twelve years’ good service, all because you failed to inform him at four o’clock in the morning his godson was vomiting?” Jane asked with a smile.

  “When you put it like that, my lady, no, he isn’t. He’s always been very fair,” Andrews replied and felt curiously relieved. “To point out fact, his lordship is the best and fairest master I’ve had the privilege to be employed as gentleman’s gentleman.”

  “I thought as much,” Jane said with confidence. “So what do you suggest we do with Lady St. John’s letter?”

  “I’d wait till morning,” Andrews replied without hesitation. “There’s not much his lordship can do for the boy tonight, save get in the physician’s way. And if he is delirious he wouldn’t know if his lordship was in attendance on him or not, is my opinion. Besides,” he began and stopped, but when Jane continued to smile at him encouragingly he added cautiously, “Lady St. John can sometimes be a bit of a-a panic merchant where her son is concerned, if your ladyship understands my meaning.”

  Jane understood only too well. Her stepmother was the same with her stepbrother Tom, over-protective and frantic at the first sign of a sniffle, and not much good in a crisis. She suspected Lady St. John made a habit of calling on Salt for male support in her times of crisis, whatever the hour or the inconvenience.

  “Then I suggest we leave the letter on his lordship’s dressing table for him to read in the morning,” was Jane’s advice. “If there is any change in the little boy’s condition, his mother will no doubt send another messenger with an even more urgent request, and then perhaps we will need to wake his lordship. But until then, let’s wait and see, shall we? Does that seem reasonable?”

  “Very reasonable, my lady,” agreed the valet, standing taller, the cloud of doom and despair rising up off his shoulders.

  “Now if you’d be good enough to show me which door leads back to my apartments I would be most grateful,” Jane said conversationally, keeping matters light for the benefit of the valet who had come into the bedchamber looking most embarrassed and uncomfortable and as if he’d been sentenced to be strung up. “In time I know I’ll be able to find my own way… This house is so vast, and I’ve not yet seen a third of the rooms… The fireplace in my bedchamber must be working by now…” And she prattled on in this conversational way until back in her apartment, where indeed there was now a good fire in the grate of her bedchamber fireplace.

  The valet left the Countess with a spring in his step. She had managed to put him so much at ease that when he drew back the heavy velvet curtains in the Earl’s bedchamber to let in the muted light of a freezing cold January day he still felt curiously optimistic. The little drama over the delivery of a letter from Lady St. John seemed quite inconsequential as he went about hurriedly dressing his master for the Royal Tennis tournament. Several of the gentlemen players and their entourage of supporters had already arrived and were down at the covered court hitting up. But the night before came back to haunt Andrews when a footman trod quietly into the closet with the news that a very distressed Lady St. John was downstairs and requested an immediate audience with the Earl.

  Andrews’ gulp was audible, and the telltale flush to his cheeks alarmingly obvious. He continued on with his duties, despite a sidelong suspicious glance from his master, and shrugged the Earl into a Venetian blue waistcoat without sleeves, worn over an open-necked white linen shirt and a pair of thigh tight woven breeches that allowed for ease of movement when playing Royal Tennis. It only remained to slip the Earl into his soft kid leather tennis shoes, and it was while he was on bended knee at this task that he was quietly asked to explain if the unopened letter from the Lady St. John on the dressing table was in any way connected to her ladyship’s present distress.

  The valet did his best to recount his early morning conversation with the Countess without incriminating either of them in the decision not to wake the Earl. Salt remained silent throughout. But when he got up to leave, taking the now read letter with him, he swore under his breath and so viciously that Andrews felt as if he’d had his face slapped. He only hoped he had managed to save the Countess from the Earl’s wrath.

  Salt was in a foul mood. He’d woken to find Jane gone. That he had expected her to still be asleep in his arms, her luscious curves cuddled up to him, and she was not, put him out of sorts. It put him out of sorts that he should be out of sorts over such a banal circumstance. Eight out of ten married nobles of his acquaintance didn’t wake up with their mistresses, least of all with their wives. He certainly had never stayed the night with a lover, preferring his own bed to sleep in. One night with his wife, a woman who had rejected him and then married him because she must, and already he wanted to wake up with her in the morning.

  God, what was wrong with him?

  But he knew the answer to that. It was simple. He had enjoyed making love to Jane very much, in fact, so much so that he had woken up with a throbbing erection, wanting to make love to her. He couldn’t wait to have the taste and feel of her under him again. He had expected that making love to her would cure him of wanting her. To his utter surprise and annoyance he found that he wanted her more now than ever.

  Yet in wanting her he felt wretched.

  An unsettled feeling had descended upon him since waking and he’d had time to reflect on the night before. He had been too rough with her. He should have shown more restraint. Taken things more slowly. Waited for her to be fully awake, not seduced her while she was half-asleep. She was not a virgin but she might as well have been; one night of making love four years ago did not an experienced lover make.

  He prided himself on being considerate in the bedchamber, and here he was, on his wedding night no less, reduced to the most basic of primal urges with no thought to the inexperience of his bride. Such behavior was unforgivable but then so had hers been to have the audacity to throw her ruin in his face when he was beyond the point of no return. He remained physically and mentally unsatisfied and that was no way to start the day.

  Such brooding thoughts consumed him as he traversed the length of his vast Grosvenor Square mansion, down to the Royal Tennis Court he’d had built at the back of the house. The enclosed tennis court afforded the Earl and his male companions exercise, relaxation and entertainment during the long winter months that Parliament sat, when it was too cold, too wet or just plain miserable weather for horse riding. By repute, the Salt Hendon Tennis Court was the only place in winter for the pursuit of serious sports by serious sportsmen.

  A replica of the Tudor Tennis Court found at Hampton Court Palace, the court had a tiled floor, rich wood paneling and an enormous void that reached up to an intricate wood-beamed roof. Along the length of one high wall windows were set at an angle to give adequate light, air and space. Along the opposite wall was the Gallery where spectators gathered in individual boxes, fitted out with velvet cushions and soft furnishings and assigned an attending footman with an endless supply of refreshment. Here wives, daughters, children and mistresses of sporting noblemen lounged at their ease, drinking champagne and wines. From behind the relative privacy of curtains made of soft netting to ensure rogue tennis balls did them no damage, these pampered females were free to ogle and discuss the merits of the sporting male physique, shown to full advantage in thigh tight woven breeches and shirts so wet with sweat that they clung to broad chest, wide back and beefy arm.

  The Earl hailed his friends. Four were out on the court with their hickory rackets about to commence a practice hit up, the rest of the group milled about the first boxed gallery opposite the Tambour, in conversation with the gathering spectators, while footmen adjusted t
he lacings of their soft kid shoes, took away frockcoats and offered refreshments on silver trays. But Salt did not join them. He acknowledged their hearty salutes with a wave and strode on, down the length of the boxed gallery in search of his cousin.

  He was half way along the Gallery when Diana St. John appeared through the doorway that gave access to the court from the Gallery. She saw him almost at once and came bustling along the tiles, careful to stay close to the spectator boxes because the four players had begun a game of doubles, serving across the net, the ball hit up onto the angled side wall so that it skittered along the sloped roof of the gallery making a loud series of thumps before dropping down on the opposite side of the net. She stopped in front of the third box along and when Salt joined her there threw her arms about his neck and clung to him. She burst into tears.

  “How is he?” he said without preamble, and pulled her closer to the spectator box, shoulder brushing against the soft net curtain, his wide back shielding her from any stray tennis balls.

  Diana St. John remained mute. She looked as if she hadn’t slept all night.

  “Diana, for God’s sake, tell me!” he demanded, ashen-faced, interpreting her forlorn expression to mean her son’s temperature had indeed taken an upward leap into feverishness. “Ron’s just got a slightly elevated temperature? He’ll be all right in a day or two?”

  “Oh, Salt! It’s been such an ordeal,” Diana St. John announced loudly, as if to be heard over the shouts of the tennis players, and quickly dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, careful not to smudge her expertly applied cosmetics. “I can’t begin to tell you what a wretched night I’ve had. No sleep and the worry. I couldn’t stop thinking what would happen if I lost my boy, too. First dear St. John’s death, and he in the prime of his life, and now, to lose my son… Oh, I couldn’t bear it, Salt. I just couldn’t. It would surely kill me.”