by Deana James
Embarrassed, she drew herself up and lifted her chin.
"That's better." He came to her and held out his arm. "Lady Polwycke, I’ve come to escort you down to dinner."
At the mention of food, her stomach rumbled so loudly that they both heard it. His eyes met hers and he grinned. "And just in time, too. Shall we?"
She held out the skirt of her riding habit and looked down at it ruefully.
He shrugged. "Under the circumstances a perfectly acceptable garment. The lateness of the meal, don't you know? Not even time for a whisky. And I've been dry for hours. Indeed, I think our dress will be excused. My own attire looks a trifle like it's been slept in."
She glanced down before she could stop herself. His pantaloons were badly creased. She lifted her eyes quickly, her expression agonized. A blush rose into her cheeks.
He laughed. "There you go again. You spent too long in the nunnery, m'dear. But that's all over. You'll have to get used to my humor, such as it is. We'll make an entrance together. My lady." He caught up her hand and bowed low over it, holding her fingers in the manner of the minuet of another era. His lips brushed her skin, then he twisted his head around to shoot her a playful look.
She hesitated only a brief moment, then nodded. As he straightened, she sank down in a regal curtsy befitting a presentation at court.
"Delightful. Shall we go then?" He drew her up. "Mustn't keep the culinary masterpieces waiting. They should be viewed in all their blackened splendor. Especially considering how long they've been held. Unfortunately, Cook has limited abilities at the onset." He chuckled with more gallows humor. "The food will undoubtedly be a unique experience."
Together they descended to the dining room. Murky gilt mirrors on either side of the doors reflected their images side by side. He halted them. "Not too bad, considering the circumstances." He ran his free hand over his chin. "I need a shave."
She took his key from him. With her free hand she caught her long hair.
"You do need a hair style," he agreed. Then he shrugged. "We’ll get better. Tomorrow."
Critically, she studied first their reflection and then his face turned to the light. To her eyes he had a very handsome face with fine chiseled features, yet somehow he was pitiable. Despite his one or two humorous sallies in her bedroom, his mouth had set in stern lines as they descended. His skin looked almost unnaturally pale. His eyelids drooped in affectation of ennui that she perceived was not entirely assumed. Beneath his eyes swollen pouches bespoke last night's drinking.
Perhaps enhanced by his wrinkled clothing and shadow of a beard, the tainted air of dissipation clung to him. What had she married? Then she remembered that he had recently lost his mother. Perhaps she was mistaking grief for cynicism. After all he had helped her to get to London on that most disastrous of all trips. She smiled slightly and shook her head at his reflection.
"You do not agree?" He pretended astonishment, turning his head from side to side and studying his face. "What, pray tell, about m' face displeases you, madam?"
Rather than answer, she smiled and drew him gently away from the mirror and in through the double doors.
Faintly irritated, he scowled at her. "You must tell me later."
They entered the dining room where he led her to the sideboard. An array of decanters and glasses gleamed dully in the light from branches of smoking candles. "Will you have a drink?"
She shook her head.
As the lone footman hurried from the back hallway to pour a glass for Piers, Larnaervon entered the room, followed closely by Mrs. Felders. Their arrival was a signal for the meal to begin. The footman set the decanter down with a clink and hastened to hold the chair at the head of the table for the earl. With a glare of disapproval at the two young people, Mrs. Felders bustled out.
Tossing down the drink as if it were water, Piers set the glass on the sideboard and conducted Vivian to the chair halfway down the long table on the earl's right. When she was seated, he walked around the table and seated himself opposite her on his father's left. The footman placed his drink beside his service.
The earl stared at one and then the other, noting their white faces and rumpled clothing. He signed to the footman to pour a pale French wine into their glasses. His voice raspy, he lifted his in a salute. "To the future countess of Larnaervon. My dear, you do us proud."
Vivian looked at him in some amazement.
"Didn't she do us proud, Piers? Like Boadicea. Warrior queen of the Britains. Magnificent. My grandsons will be fighters everyone. I couldn't be more pleased with you both. Especially since you’ve already got to work on begetting them."
The footman splashed the ladle into the soup. Surreptitiously, he dabbed at a spot on the tablecloth. Vivian's eyes flew from father to son and then down to her lap. Her cheeks flushed bright red in embarrassment.
His face impassive, Piers reached for the glass beside his plate and drank deeply. "Larne," he replied, carefully setting the glass down. "You must learn to moderate your language from now on. We will be having a lady present at our table."
The earl laughed again. "A lady. Ah, well, perhaps I have forgotten." He leaned forward, his silver hair swinging. "Do you find my language offensive, daughter?"
How to answer to convey her shock and embarrassment? Vivian looked to Piers.
"She doesn't say a word," Larne went on gleefully. "Not a word. The perfect wife. That's what I’ve arranged for you, you young fool, and you don't appreciate my efforts."
"Larne."
"He’ll and damnation, boy. I'll say what I want at my own table and I advise you to do the same. Begin as you mean to go on. I never changed my way of living for any woman."
"Perhaps you should have."
"Bah! Georgina never acted as if she minded. But if she did, and if I'd changed, she'd still be dead," he snarled heartlessly. "And you'd still be the only son of my body because she couldn't have any more after that one time."
Vivian twisted nervously in her chair. The footman had finished serving the soup and had moved silently to the sideboard. She could tell by the very stillness of his body that he was listening and taking in every word that was being said.
Larne dipped his spoon into the soup and sipped it noisily before raising his head. "I really didn't expect you to come down tonight. I was sure you'd want to take her back to your bed."
"Larne," Piers warned. "That will do." He held his glass for the footman to fill, but the earl waved the man back.
"Don't drink any more, fool. Wine mars the performance."
So overset she could not think, Vivian picked up her spoon with a trembling hand. She must eat. On a full stomach this whole conversation would undoubtedly gain a proper perspective. When she took a spoonful of soup, she almost gagged. It was barely lukewarm and the consistency of gummy sauce. Its taste was appalling. Setting the spoon down hurriedly, she reached for the wineglass at her right. Over its rim, she caught Piers's mocking gaze. Raising his glass, he toasted her.
The servants ate much better food than this. She knew for she had eaten with them while she had nursed the countess. She looked to the earl, but he seemed to notice nothing wrong. She frowned.
The second course was no better. Cold, overcooked cabbage lay limply gray beside a white sliver of fish without a sauce of any kind.
The Earl of Larnaervon appeared to ingest everything with no trouble whatsoever, and Vivian began to suspect that he had no sense of taste. She stared at him from under her lashes. Was he merely eating from habit? Her eyes shifted. And was his son merely drinking from habit?
Throughout the meal, the old man joked and laughed. For Piers he had advice, shockingly sexual. Vivian found she could not swallow. Another footman had joined the first at the sideboard.
From time to time, Larne directed remarks to her concerned Sebastian s anger and the solicitor's discomfiture. When he laughed heartily, he did not mind that he laughed alone. He spoke of Frances Eads. "How could you have thought she was a suitable comp
anion?" he asked. "Why she fairly reeked of the cribs and stews of Cheapside."
Vivian clenched her fists. Words rose in her throat, words to explain her helplessness, her naivete, her misplaced faith in Sebastian, who had always presented such a kind face and always brought her thoughtful gifts. She wanted to scream them out. She framed them with her mouth, twisted her tongue around them, pushed against the back of her teeth, but no sound came.
Piers made no remark. The old man moved on to the subject of Captain MacPherson and for the first time the virtual monologue seemed to take a serious turn. "I quite believe he was satisfied with everything. Do you agree?"
"In-Indubitably, Larne." Piers lifted his glass and drank to his agreement. "He wash shatisfied that S-Sebby wash a crook. He probably thought we were, too, but my dear-my esh-timable wife wouldn't go out of the room wi' 'im." He looked at Vivian, his eyes blearing.. "Why?"
She stared at his plate, noting that he had eaten almost nothing. A bite of the fish, none of the vegetable. Instead he continued to drink steadily from the wine which he did not allow the footman to water. Both men looked at her as if waiting for her to suddenly make a statement.
Then the earl laughed. "Why because she's your wife, you fool. And she knows which side her bread's buttered on. Don't you, daughter dear?" He leaned forward. "I promise you this, Vivian Marleigh. You give me a grandson and you can have whatever is in my power to give you." He sank back in his chair as the footman cleared the food away. Lifting his glass, he regarded its color in the light. "You'll never be shut up in a nunnery or locked up in a cell in an insane asylum either. I promise you that. Just give me that boy."
Another course was brought, this time a roast of beef charred black on the outside. A dry, gristly slice was placed on Vivian's plate. Privately, she thought it looked like nothing so much as a pile of burnt matchsticks as she pushed at it with her fork.
The earl at that moment took notice of her riding habit. "I would think a bit more formality in your dress, daughter dear."
She shot Piers a quick look.
"I do not mind your riding. In fact exercise is good for young bodies. I used to exercise myself. I was not always as you see me now," the earl declared. He stared at her critically. "But at the dinner table, I like to see a woman in a bright dress, perhaps with a jewel or two about her throat." He turned to his son. "See that she has a pick from your mother's jewels."
Piers nodded stolidly. He had given up all pretense of eating.
Larne cursed softly, then smiled at his daughter-in-law. "Please send for a mount at anytime. Ride as long as you like. We have grooms aplenty in the stables. Just be sure you do not ride after you’ve conceived. Too much danger of accidents." For his son he had only a sneer. "Right, m’boy?"
"If y' shay sho, Larne." Piers held out his glass for the footman to fill again.
"Heard of many a woman losing her baby, falling—” He went on and on.
By the time the butler served dessert, a lumpy pudding, unattractive and tasteless, Vivian's mortification on the subject of child bearing had subsided into disgust. Almost she prayed for the peace of the abbey. At least there, the conversation had been quiet, though dull, and the food well prepared, though plain. Here she had been insulted with every other sentence and served such food as would make convicts run riot. Such food should not be tolerated. Under no circumstances should servants be allowed to serve this mess.
She caught a glimpse of Mrs. Felders standing in the door surveying the scene. Vivian shot the housekeeper an accusing glance and spooned up a bite of the maltasting stuff, to let it plop back uneaten in her dish. The woman merely pursed her mouth even tighter.
Undoubtedly, these people were paid well, or they would not stay and work. Mrs. Felders wore black silk. She should oversee this house better. The servants should be compelled to perform their duties in a proper fashion.
If she were really the lady of the house-
"Shall we withdraw, Vivian?" Piers's slurred voice interrupted her smoldering thoughts. Listing distinctly to the left, he rose from his chair as the footman pulled it back. One hand on the edge of the table steadied him until he could walk stiffly around to her side. "I could do with a breath o' fresh air. P'rhaps the garden—”
From his seat at the head of the table, the earl let out a sarcastic bark. "Good! Good! Romance her. Take her for a turn in the moonlight. With snow on the ground. Don't be a fool! Take her right up to bed. You've fed her now. She won't pass out on you." He leaned toward her. His yellowed, gnarled hand crawled along the white tablecloth. "You feel better, don't you, my dear? I noticed you ate a portion of everything."
Flinging down her napkin, Vivian scraped back her chair and hurried to the end of the table where her husband waited to offer her his arm. He might be the lesser of two evils in her life, but at least he did not constantly embarrass her before the servants.
Outside in the drafty hall, they paused to send a footman for her cape to protect her against the frosty night air. As they waited, Piers leaned against the wall, his arms folded, one long leg crossed in front of the other. Vivian shifted uncomfortably under his bitter regard.
"Enjoy the sh-shtimulating conversation, m'dear? Not to shpeak of the sumptuoush repast? An' you wonder why I drink? You'll do it too eventually." His sarcasm was heavy, his voice slurred. He closed his eyes for a moment, then blinked them open.
She clasped her hands together at her waist and shook her head.
"Oh, yesh. Oh, yesh, you will. My father doesn't taste the food. Nor would he care, I dareshay. He doesn't care for luxuries. Money and power're his pleasures. Likes to give commands. I've been made to shee th' right o' things. My mother—” He swallowed. His voice broke. Then he spoke more loudly and more pointedly in the direction of the dining room. "My mother hated him and fought with him. He s-set that Felders bitch up over her."
The dining room door slammed behind them.
He grinned at Vivian. "It would be nice, I admit, to have jus' a few of the minor creature comforts from time to time, but probably more trouble than they're worth." He pushed himself from the wall as the servant descended the stairs.
Taking the soft material from the other man's hand, Piers draped it carefully around Vivian's shoulders allowing his fingers to play along the slender bones. He stood so close behind her that she could smell the wine on his breath as well as the cologne and soap he used on his body. Gently, he tightened the grip on her shoulders until she was held quite still. His hand was inordinately hot. The wine must have set a fire in his blood.
A frisson of fear played across her nerve endings.
His lips nibbled at her earlobe, brushed the skin beneath it. "Ah, there'sh a delectable shpot," he whispered.
Again she trembled under his hands.
His lips moved down the column of her neck. "Don't you be fraid that this timell be a repeat of this afternoon. Jus' put that experience right out of your mind. It'll never”—he shook her gently- "never happen again. I’ll be gentle with you."
She squirmed and tried to twist out from under his hot-seeking mouth, but he held her firmly as he touched first his lips and then the tip of his tongue to the throbbing pulse at the base of her throat. She twisted her head to the side in an effort to push him away, but he only transferred his mouth to the other earlobe taking it between his strong white teeth.
"Be shtill," he commanded softly, "or bear conshequences." Chuckling, he closed his teeth a bit tighter on her quivering flesh. His hot breath tickled her neck. When at last his hard hands released her shoulders, they moved to encircle her, dragging her back against his chest. Unfortunately, her weight was too much for his shaky balance. He staggered back against the wall, tangling his foot in the leg of a heavy table. Cursing, he released her and caught himself against its edge as it rocked and banged against the wall.
He was so drunk he could not stand upright. Angrily she turned to face him. Eyes blazing, her stare swept contemptuously up and down him before she brushed p
ast him.
"Wait," he demanded, righting himself with some difficulty. "Le's step out in the garden. Need a breath of fre' shair t' clear m' head. Come back here. Walk with me."
With one foot on the stair, she paused to look back over her shoulder at him. Taking no care to conceal her feelings, she drew herself to her full height. Her disgust was apparent as she stared at him sprawled drunkenly against the wall, feet spread wide, hips braced against the edge of the table. Haughtily lifting her chin, she turned to mount the stairs, leaving him to struggle alone.
"Damn," he swore softly as he shook his head to clear it. "Damn."
Behind him in the hall, Watkins appeared. "Milord, shall I assist you to your room?"
"NO!" Piers roared. "Wedding night, don't y' know?" He began to mutter to himself. With the valet's assistance he untangled himself from the table and headed for the terrace beyond the glass-enclosed doors. "Shtep outside 'n' clear m' head. Then go up 'n' do the hus-husband thing." Taking considerable care, he walked out to the doors and opened them. "Watkins," he called over his shoulder as the icy wind rushed in, "p'rhaps you'd better bring a bit of brandy to the terrace. Jus' have a tot and get a brace of night air. That'll set me up right and proper."
The dining-room door opened. The earl limped through leaning heavily on his cane. Mrs. Felders supported him on his other side. "For God's sake, man," he barked at the valet. "What's that door standing open for? Surely he didn't take her out there. It's a blizzard."