“Did you think you were free of me?” he asked, biting into her shoulder.
She knew better than to answer, but she had thought just that. When Caroline died, he had given her a choice. She could either remain in London and become his mistress, or she could move to Bath where she would raise his four daughters. She had chosen Bath. She had thought he would stay in London, and leave her in peace. She had been wrong. As he plunged into her bowels, she mulled over what dress to wear to the Upper Rooms that evening; she would have to rethink her wardrobe now, because the bastard had bitten her shoulder, leaving a mark.
“I own you,” he murmured. His contempt and loathing made her burn, but she could not have argued, even if she had been permitted to speak. He did own her. He had bought up all her debts, and he still held them. He was now her only source of income. All she had, and all she would ever have, flowed from him. This was the price she paid to keep up appearances.
Afterward, she helped him dress. She was allowed to speak then, but only to thank his lordship for the “honor” he had bestowed upon her unworthy body. He left her. She summoned her maid, bathed and dressed as usual, then went down to greet her brother-in-law formally in the drawing-room. Although well past forty, he was a well-preserved, handsome man. The silver rinse in his hair, she was obliged to admit, made him appear almost god-like. His buff-colored pantaloons fit him like a second skin, and his coat, rather unusually, was made of yellow kid leather and must have cost a small fortune.
The picture of aristocratic elegance, she served him coffee.
“What brings you to Bath, my lord?”
“London,” he said, “was a bore. Every girl I met reminded me of my pathetic, mewling wife. Fawning, stupid, sickly creatures, all. Just like Caroline. Someone ought to teach these people a lesson,” he grumbled. “They can’t keep bringing out these boring, pasty-faced girls year after year, and expect men of my exalted rank to stoop to marrying them. I was so bloody bored, I decided to pay you a visit.”
“My lord,” she said, “you flatter me.”
“How do you like being a nursemaid to my brats?” he asked her when the servants had all departed. “Has it made you rethink your curious decision not to become my mistress? Would you like to come to London with me now?”
Serena bowed her head. The bastard actually believed that she liked what he did to her. Because she no longer fought him. Because she acquiesced to his brutal commands. She feared what he might do if he ever guessed how much she loathed him. “You know I can never be your mistress, my lord,” she said calmly. “You are my sister’s husband. I could bear the humiliation for myself, but I could never live with the guilt if I damaged your reputation.”
She could taste the bile and vomit rising in her throat as she flattered him with these lies.
“In that case,” he said, eating one of the cakes left over from her dinner party, “I think it is only fair to tell you that I lost your bills in a card game last week. You have a new protector now, and I doubt he will be willing to defer payment. I expect he will visit you soon.”
“You bastard,” she gasped, struggling to breathe.
He smiled, pleased with himself. “You will like him, I think.”
Serena was on her feet, her fists clenched at her sides. “Who is he?” she demanded.
“Are you going to hit me with your little fist?” he asked, amused. “Remember that time you fell down the stairs? That was the last time you made a fist at me.”
Serena forced herself to sit down. “Who is it, my lord?” she asked calmly.
Redfylde laughed. “It is the Duke of Kellynch. You’re in for a treat, from what I hear.”
Serena snatched up the coffeepot, just as the door opened. “Lord Ludham,” the butler intoned, and Felix Calverstock breezed in.
Serena had a fantasy in which she told Felix everything. In her fantasy, Felix killed Redfylde in a duel. Then he took her in his arms and asked her to be his wife. Of course, this was absurd. If she ever told Felix her dark secret, he would look at her with disgust and horror. And if he challenged Redfylde to a duel, it would be Redfylde who left the field alive, not Felix. Either way, Felix would never, ever marry Serena if he knew.
“My lord!” Ludham cried, striding up to the marquess and thrusting out his hand. That he admired the older man was blatantly obvious. “I saw your gig outside. Did you drive from London? What magnificent bays! Where did you get them?”
Redfylde gave the earl two fingers to shake. “Tattersall’s, of course,” he replied easily, “but they were bred in Ireland. The Duke of Kellynch’s Red Rogue was their sire. Their dam can be traced back to the Barb.”
“Miss Vaughn says the best horses in the world come from Ireland,” Ludham said, enthusiastically joining his two favorite subjects: horses and Miss Vaughn. “She’s convinced me I must visit something called the Dublin Horse Fair. Hullo, Serena,” he added carelessly. “You are looking flushed. Are you feeling quite the thing?”
“I am perfectly well, Felix,” she answered, smiling. “Coffee?”
Redfylde crossed his long legs and yawned. “Who,” he asked, “is Miss Vaughn?”
Ludham blinked at him as if such ignorance were incredible. “Who is Miss Vaughn?” he repeated in astonishment. “Only the prettiest girl in Bath!”
Redfylde glanced at Serena in amusement. “Indeed. You are not very chivalrous to your cousin, Felix. Surely, there are other ladies in Bath who at least share the title.”
“I think not!”
Serena said severely, “Rose Fitzwilliam is a very pretty girl, Felix!”
Redfylde interrupted her. “Matlock’s daughter? Or, should I say: Westlands’s little castoff?” he sneered. “I met the Fitzwillliam chit in London. She is pretty, I grant you, but nothing out of the common way. Westlands must have had some reason for crying off. Some scandal in the girl’s past has come to light, no doubt.”
“Past?” said Serena. “The child is but seventeen.”
He only smiled. “I did not come to Bath in pursuit of young ladies who have been thrown away by other men. All in all, it was a most disappointing crop of debutantes this year. Perhaps I will go to the continent and choose a little French wife. A little marquise.”
“You would not disgrace Caroline’s memory with a French wife,” said Serena hotly.
He smiled at her. “Would I not?”
“Serena,” Ludham said urgently. “Tell him how beautiful Miss Vaughn is, and he will not go to the continent. Words fail me anymore. I can’t do her justice. I wish I were an artist. She makes me wish I were an artist, that is all I can say.”
Redfylde laughed. “Matchmaking, Felix? Why don’t you marry her yourself, if she is such a beauty?”
“She won’t marry me,” the younger man replied.
“Felix!” cried Serena. “You didn’t ask her?”
“Yesterday,” he replied mournfully. “She won’t marry me because of the divorce. I can’t say I blame her. The scandal has been dreadful. What woman would want to be touched by it?”
“She refused you, a British earl? Only because of a little scandal?” Redfylde snickered in disbelief. “She must be a very prim and proper miss.”
“Quite the contrary,” Serena snapped. “She is the most shocking flirt!”
Redfylde quirked a brow. “I am not easily shocked,” he drawled.
The word that Lord Redfylde had come to Bath spread through the town like wildfire. Mr. King was beside himself with joy. If Lord Redfylde had left London for Bath, surely the fashionable crowd would soon follow. The master of ceremonies visited Redfylde as soon as possible and personally begged the honor of his lordship’s presence in the Upper Rooms for the Monday dress-ball. Rather too ambitiously, he promised the marquess lively conversation in the Octagon Room, brisk play in the card room, a hearty tea, and, of course, pretty dancing partners. Redfylde thought it would be amusing to rattle the cages of the local virgins before he returned to London for the more sophisticated pleasure
s he preferred.
It was as though a royal visit had been announced. All of Bath dressed itself in its finest clothes and assembled in the Upper Rooms, breathless with anticipation. The marquess was late, and Mr. King broke his own rule and did not begin the ball precisely at nine o’clock. His lordship arrived thirty minutes later, with Lady Serena at his side.
The crowd parted for them, bowing and scraping. The gentlemen bowed, the ladies curtseyed. The silver-haired marquess looked devastatingly attractive in the stark black and white of his formal evening dress. His noble countenance was undeniable, his expression haughty, and his smile cruel. The ladies shivered to see him, and the men gnashed their teeth in envy. There was no competing with such an aristocrat.
He took his place at the top of the room, and all of Bath lined up to meet him. His pale eyes flicked away hopefuls as if they were mere fleas as Mr. King made the introductions. Lord Redfylde spoke only once during this reception. Glancing across the room at a girl of modest good looks who was staring at him, wide-eyed as a frightened doe, he said contemptuously, “I suppose that is the famous Miss Vaughn, of whose beauty I have heard so much.”
The gentleman who was being presented to the marquess at that moment, looked up, startled, from the bow he was performing. “My lord?”
Redfylde waved him away. “Who gave you permission to address me? King!”
Mr. King had never left the marquess’s side. “My lord?”
Redfylde yawned. “No more of these insipid people. Bring Miss Vaughn to me now. Let me have a look at the famous beauty.”
Mr. King could not conceal his dismay. “Miss Vaughn does not attend balls, my lord. Her mother, Lady Agatha, is too ill to chaperone her, you understand, and her relative, Sir Benedict Wayborn, has been called away to London.”
Lord Redfylde looked annoyed. He turned to Serena. “My dear, I think you had better invite this girl to tea for a private showing. Would tomorrow suit you?”
Serena inclined her head. “Yes, my lord.”
As little as she wanted to entertain the Irish girl, Serena was unprepared for the humiliation of receiving Miss Vaughn’s regrets, hastily scrawled on the back of an old laundry list. Her hand shook with rage as she revealed the message to her brother-in-law. “Who does she think she is?” Serena cried.
“Who, indeed?” Redfylde said thoughtfully. “She is poor and unmarried. You tell me her father is a rogue, and her mother is an old fright in a red wig. Yet she does not attend balls, and she does not jump at the chance to take tea with Lady Serena Calverstock. One might almost think the lady has no interest in securing a husband or a place in society.”
It was inconceivable to him that Miss Vaughn might be wholly unaware of his presence in Bath. It was in the newspapers, and on everyone’s lips. She must be avoiding me, he thought. She must be trying to intrigue me by playing hard to get.
“Is she truly a beauty?” he asked.
Serena looked at him. It would be useless to deny it. “Ask the Duke of Kellynch if she is beautiful,” she answered. “He knows her. Some would say he knows her rather too well.”
Redfylde looked startled. “Good lord! Is she Kellynch’s Miss Vaughn?” He began to laugh. “The heiress of Castle Argent? Here in Bath? What a joke! Now I must meet her.”
“Kellynch’s cast-off mistress?” Serena sneered.
“She ain’t his mistress, you fool. She’s his niece. Her father’s one of old Kellynch’s bastards. Now tell me,” he added, his pale blue eyes narrowing, “how can I meet her? I have no intention of applying at her door like a supplicant. Let it appear to be an accidental meeting of some kind.”
They were alone in the drawing-room of her house, the house he paid for. He walked over to Serena, curled his middle finger behind his thumb, and filliped her hard on the end of her patrician nose. “Think of something!” he instructed her angrily.
The following afternoon, Lord Redfylde and his eldest daughter paid a visit to Miss Bulstrode’s exclusive Seminary for Young Ladies, conveniently located in the heart of Bath, just steps away from Queen’s Square. For nearly half an hour, father and daughter stood outside the edifice waiting for Miss Vaughn to come to collect her sister. She was late.
Surreptitiously, Redfylde looked at every female that passed through the gates. Not one in five met his idea of a tolerable woman, let alone a beautiful one. Most of them were obviously servants. They went into the school alone, and they came out with one or two female children. They dribbled away, and did not interest him in the least.
“Is that her?” he occasionally inquired of his child.
Of his four daughters, black-haired Amelia resembled her dead mother the most and her father the least. Redfylde had no use for any of his children, as they were all useless females, but he had a special distaste of his eldest. From a young age, the child had been taught by her mother and her aunt to be cold and aloof to him. The result of their interference was that Lady Amelia had no natural affection for the man who had created her.
At last he saw Miss Vaughn hurrying up the street. There was no need to ask the question “Is that her?” Even before she was close enough for him to see her face, he could perceive from her effect on the people around her that she was a beautiful girl. Heads, both male and female, turned to watch her as she passed. One young man actually ran into a lamp-post.
Her dress was striped in blue and white, like mattress ticking, Redfylde thought with all the contempt of a man of fashion, but her figure was just what he liked: slim and virginal. This was not the ideal body type for breeding, of course, but his lordship had never been attracted to ample women. Although tall and muscular, he was not very well-endowed in his manhood, and large women made him feel inadequate. A bully by nature, he instinctively was attracted to women whom he could physically overpower with ease.
“Don’t just stand there,” he urged his daughter impatiently as Miss Vaughn drew near the school gates. “Go and say hello.”
Miss Vaughn rang the bell on the gate and stood waiting.
“I can’t,” Amelia cried in soft dismay. “I don’t know her very well.”
Infuriated by her disobedience, Redfylde gave her an encouraging, fatherly shove in the back. Lady Amelia went sprawling. He had forgotten what a mewling weakling she was, like all of Caroline’s children. Not for the first time, he wondered if she was really his flesh and blood.
“You clumsy little fool,” he hissed, gritting his teeth. “Get up! You are embarrassing your father. Get up, or you will be punished. I shall thrash you within an inch of your life.”
Amelia looked up at him, terrified. “Please, Papa.” She began to whimper.
It was the absolute worst thing she could have done. Pleas for mercy always awakened the worst cruelty in him. He bent over her, his lip curled, his walking stick in his hand.
Overcome by her fears, Amelia fainted, but, just before she lost consciousness, a beautiful angel appeared, an angel with green eyes, white hair, and a golden halo. Miraculously, the angel came between Amelia and her father, and Amelia was saved. She felt herself being lifted up and carried away to a beautiful place.
When she woke up, she was lying on the big horsehair sofa in Miss Bulstrode’s private sitting room. Her head was in Miss Vaughn’s lap. Miss Vaughn was quietly stroking her hair. Lady Amelia’s father was there, too, but he was different. Miss Vaughn had transformed him somehow. It took Amelia a moment to realize that her father was smiling. He was no longer angry with her. She had escaped certain death. Miss Vaughn had rescued her.
Her mother in heaven must have sent Miss Vaughn to rescue her. It was the only possible explanation that Lady Amelia could conceive. No one else had ever loved her, and people were always telling her that her dear mama was in heaven watching over her.
“Hello,” said Miss Vaughn, smiling down at her. What Amelia had thought was a golden halo was actually her round bonnet of golden straw. “You gave us all a bad scare, my lady! Do you think you can sit up now? Will you try for
me?”
“Of course she can,” Redfylde said. “There’s a good girl.” Even though he wasn’t angry any longer, his voice sent a shiver through his daughter’s body.
“Are you cold, mavourneen?” asked Miss Vaughn, her voice soft and creamy. “Would you toss me the bit of a blanket there, my lord?”
To Amelia’s amazement, her father obeyed. Incredibly, he seemed ready and willing to do anything Miss Vaughn told him to. “There, now,” said Miss Vaughn, when she had wrapped Lady Amelia up. “You’re gonna be just fine. Your father’s here to look after you. He’s very anxious about you, you know.”
Miss Vaughn got to her feet. Amelia whimpered and clung to her, but Miss Vaughn gently disentangled herself and went to Amelia’s father. Amelia could no longer hear what they were saying, but the soft murmur of Miss Vaughn’s voice made her feel safe. She knew instinctively that her father would not harm her as long as Miss Vaughn was there.
Lord Redfylde was doing his best to make a good impression. Right from the start, he was fascinated by the Irish girl. It was not just that she was beautiful; he had known and possessed many beautiful women in his time. She was different. She spoke to him with perfect ease, as if she had known him all her life. Her green eyes never evaded his. She made no attempt to disguise her Irish accent, and, if she was ashamed of her shabby clothes, she gave no sign of it. He was cynical enough to think she might be trying to get to his heart by way of his fatherly affections, but he was fascinated by her all the same.
The door opened, and a severely dressed female of some fifty summers stepped inside, leading a fair-haired girl firmly by the hand. “Late again, Miss Vaughn!” said Miss Bulstrode. “I am going to have to charge you a late fee!”
Rules for Being a Mistress Page 22