by Deana James
"No, sir. Milady has already retired. Milord merely stepped outside on the terrace to clear his head."
"The devil you say!" exclaimed the earl. He limped a few steps toward the doors. The wind blew a fine sprinkling of sleet over the dark hallway. "That idiot!" Leaning on his cane, he stalked back to the housekeeper. The valet tried to maneuver past them. "Where are you going?"
"Milord thought a spot of brandy—”
The earl's language made even Mrs. Felders blush. "Watkins, forget that brandy and take him up to his room."
As the valet hastened to obey, Larnaervon made his way down the hall to his study. "The fool," he muttered. "The utter and complete drunken fool. We’ll-bred girl. Beautiful girl. Rich. And can't utter a word of protest or denial. He won't ever have to listen to her carping. Does he realize what he has, what I have arranged for him? Does he seize his opportunity?" He slammed the door behind him with exceptional force.
************************************
Outside on the terrace, Piers's head cleared somewhat in the biting wind. Wretchedness and self-pity, twin results of the alcohol overcame him. Tilting his face into the bitter wind, he shivered. He was cold, but his stomach felt as if it were on fire. Too little food. Too many complaints. What would he give for a well-cooked meal eaten in peace?
Sinking onto an iron bench, he hung his head. His elbows rested on his knees and his hands dangled limply between. The brisk winds rushed around his ears and ruffled the hair on his fevered forehead.
"Milord?" Watkins' voice at his side made him stir wearily.
Groggily, he stared at his servant, unable to make sense out of what the man said. He had forgotten his purpose, forgotten why he had come out here in the first place.
"May I help you to bed, milord?" Watkins repeated.
"Surely." Piers nodded his head. "Glad of the help. Good fellow. Must have drunk too much again. Did I ever tell you how I came to drink, Watkins?"
"No, sir."
"Taught to me." He nodded again, very gently. Snowflakes began to fall silently onto his bowed head. "By my tutor. You wouldn't believe that, would you? Old Fetterman. Man'd drink anything. Wine, brandy, Hollands, anything from the cellar. Whatever came in, he stole some. Can you believe that?"
"Yes, sir," Watkins shivered. "Please, sir. Don't you think-?"
"He'd hide the stuff in the schoolroom behind the books. Sit there drinking while I'd do my lessons. Started pouring me stuff. Like a good fellow. Didn't want to drink alone. You remember old Fetterman?"
"Before my time, sir." The valet wrapped his arms around his body.
"Most boys get sick, Watkins. But not me. I didn't get sick. Not once. Just happy. Happy, happy."
"Yes, sir."
Piers lifted a hand and stared as snowflakes settled on the back of it. "It doesn't make me happy any longer, Watkins," he said solemnly. "But neither does anything else."
He shook his head, stood, staggered, and finally righted himself as Watkins slipped a shoulder under his arm.
"Come, milord."
************************************
From her bed in her own room, Vivian tensed as she heard them pass down the hall. Fervent prayers to God for preservation slipped meaninglessly off her lips. Beyond them, she knew of absolutely nothing else to do.
If her husband came to her bed tonight, she must submit to his lust. She had exhausted all avenues and closed all doors. She was married and her husband had the right to her body.
She heard the door next to hers open and close. Heard the rumble of her husband's voice, the valet's quiet murmurs. After a time the door opened and closed again and all was silent. Gradually she relaxed. She had had little experience with drunkenness. Still she guessed correctly that he had passed out and would trouble her no more for the night.
Her natural intelligence and optimism combined to override her fear. She was the Viscountess Polwycke. Others had been forced into marriages probably as undesirable as the one in which she found herself. If she retained her dignity and pride and schooled herself to remember all the behaviors of a lady, she should come through as good as any.
A groan seeped through the walls. She tensed. If his sleep were disturbed, he might remember that she lay in the next room.
But no more sounds came. The last red eyes of fire died in the grate. She exhaled a long, painful breath, conscious that she had lain without breathing or moving a muscle. Sternly, she berated herself. In all likelihood, most of her fears would be as groundless as that. She would dread it no more. When it came, it came.
Her last tutor, a liberal and intelligent man, had been impressed with her mind. She had written long essays on various subjects after reading literature and philosophy usually reserved for men. In a surprising move he had allowed her to read Voltaire's Candide, a terrifying and shocking book. Yet from her memory rose the words of Cunegonde, after being raped and stabbed by the captain of the invaders. “—but women do not necessarily die from that."
Voltaire through Cunegonde had told the truth. The worst that could happen to her had happened today and it had not killed her, only frightened and disgusted her. If fright and disgust killed people, then the length of life of mankind would be very short indeed.
In the morning she would begin her new life, she resolved tremulously. She was mistress of this house. True, Piers and Lord Larnaervon were her masters, but she was their mistress. She knew instinctively that whatever the earl might be, he was no liar. As for Piers, no matter what his other faults might be, he was not a cruel man. She smiled. He had always done what she asked him to do.
She would find a way to live. She would.
************************************
The housekeeper came into the study to find the earl sitting before a dying fire. Efficiently, she added coal from the scuttle. "Will that be all, sir?"
He had been staring into the fire, scarcely conscious that she had entered. Her question broke the spell. He stared at her, his eyes narrowing.
She kept her own gaze turned to the work at hand, stoking the fire with inordinant care.
"Emma, what maggot infests your brain now?"
"Sir?"
"'Sir,'" he mimicked irritably. "Don't say 'sir' in that tone of voice to me."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Come here."
Reluctantly, she straightened. Instead of her coming toward him, however, he laid his cane aside and came to her. His hands slipped up round her neck to caress her cheeks. "Ah, Emma." He kissed her lips.
They remained unresponsive under his own.
He drew back and looked at her. She turned her head aside, her lashes lowered. He grinned. His right hand found the pins in her hair and plucked them out, dropping them one by one with little tinny sounds onto the stones. With his left arm, he encircled her waist and drew her resistant body in against his. Leaning heavily on his good leg, he pushed his hips into her belly.
She shook her head, her expression angry, defiant. The cloud of dark hair swirled around her shoulders. He caught her chin and lifted it. His mouth was hard and demanding, his tongue driving into her, flattening her own tongue, touching the back of her throat. She made a tiny whimpering sound and squirmed futilely beneath the punishment. She pushed against him with her arms and fists.
His arousal grew as she fought him. At last he released her mouth. A couple of steps and he had dropped into the chair, his face dark, his breath rasping harshly. She stood above him, her face hidden in the shadow of her hair.
"Witch!" He twisted her wrist, gently. Down she came on her knees in front of him. "Witch." His rasp turned the word into the scratch of a fingernail through velvet. He tugged her lazily toward him, until her body slid between his thighs. "You would tease an old man."
Her face still in darkness, she unbuttoned the front of his pantaloons and moved aside his clothing. "This doesn't know you're an old man," she murmured.
His head drooped as she slid her hands in between the
layers of clothing. "Witch," he whispered again. His fist knotted convulsively in her hair.
Chapter 11
Vivian awoke slowly. Stretching and yawning sleepily, she opened one eye. The early morning light strained to penetrate the grimy windowpanes. Rolling over, she buried her face in the pillow and tried to count her blessings.
The first blessing was the lavender-scented down pillow she clutched, its wonderful softness conforming to the contours of her breasts. The abbey had not had such comforts at the heads of their abominably hard cots. The three pillows she had brought with her had mysteriously disappeared one by one, leaving her to wonder at the people who had dedicated themselves to lives of poverty and obedience within the walls.
For several moments she lay still trying to think of other such small creature comforts. The second blessing was the warmth and softness of the bed. Reluctantly, she dragged her face out of the pillow and stared around her.
The third blessing hung on the wall beside the bed- a bell cord. With a smug little smile, she pulled it and slipped back under the covers to wait for whoever might come.
Her summons was answered with gratifying promptness. A young girl in a ruffled mobcap timidly opened the door and peered around the edge. "Will you be wanting your morning chocolate, milady?"
Pulling herself to a sitting position, Vivian smiled and nodded.
The maid bobbed her head and disappeared to return in minutes bearing a small tray. Vivian could not help noticing that the girl-besides being very young- walked with a pronounced limp. Nevertheless, she bore the tray with creditable skill. Setting it carefully down on the bedside table, she folded her hands and stepped back.
Vivian looked at her expectantly. When the girl did not move, Vivian pointed to the robe lying across the end of the bed.
A faint flush stained the already rosy cheeks as she muttered a hasty apology. When she helped Vivian into the warm garment, her fingers shook. At last the pillows were arranged, and Vivian's long braid was pulled around to hang over her left shoulder. Uttering a tiny sigh of relief, the girl stepped back again and smiled timidly.
Smiling in return, Vivian folded her hands. Since Mrs. Felders had seen fit to send an untrained maid, she would begin the girl's training immediately. Helplessly, the girl looked from her mistress to the hot chocolate.
Reaching for her pad and pencil, Vivian wrote the words, You may serve me. Unfortunately, when she passed the pad to the maid, the girl shook her head and burst into tears.
"Oh, milady," she quavered. "I canna read nor write. Mrs. Felders said I was to serve you and be your personal maid, but I said that I couldna because I was too ignorant. But she said I must. Oh, what shall I do? Now I’ll be turned off." She moaned and threw hern apron up in front of her face.
Mentally condemning Mrs. Felders to perdition, Vivian shook her head in exasperation. Tugging the apron away, she pulled the girl's hands down from her face. Soothingly, she patted the rough, cold fingers.
"Oh, I canna. I canna."The little maid wailed harder and tried to pull away, but Vivian tightened her grip and shook the girl's hands sharply.
Immediately, the wailing stopped. Looking straight into her tear-streaked face, Vivian carried one reluctant hand to the handle of the chocolate pot and forced the maid to lift and pour. With that task completed, Vivian took her hand away and leaned back in the bed.
"Oh, I can. I can. Oh, thank you, milady, for showing me the way of it. If you was to just show me once. I could do. And I'd never forget." Sniffing noisily, the girl carefully passed the cup and saucer to Vivian.
While her lady sipped the warm chocolate, the maid pulled a scrap of cloth from her apron pocket and blew her nose. Efficiently enough, she moved to pick up the blue velvet dress and underclothing.
"My name's Adeline, milady," she volunteered. "But you can call me Addie. Not that you'd be usin' my name." Suddenly, she blushed beet red. "Oh, lor'," she gasped. "What I mean to say is, not that you'd want to. Oh, I canna. I canna." She began to wail again. "I told Mrs. Felders—”
Vivian clapped her hands together sharply. When the girl pulled her apron down in front of her face, Vivian smiled graciously.
"You're not put out, milady? Oh, you're that generous." Drying her cheeks for the second time that morning, she moved' to the wardrobe. "I’ll try extra hard. I promise. Now. What will you be wanting to put on this morning? Ooh! Where'd this come from?" She opened the oak doors to find only one garment hanging there-the nun's habit.
Vivian stiffened, the cocoa sloshing in the cup. Silently, she vowed that if she had to go naked, she would never don it again. The insensate piece of cloth had become a symbol of her helplessness, her inability to control any aspect of her life. Nuns were mindlessly obedient. She would never be mindlessly obedient again.
Get rid of it! she willed herself to scream. Burn it! Bury it! Fling it into the ocean. Silence. She closed her eyes as real pain streaked through her throat. Again as countless times before she willed herself to speak. She opened her mouth, she pushed the air out of her lungs-and nothing happened.
Opening her eyes, she saw the maid was staring at her. Probably the poor girl believed her to be mad.
Flinging back the covers, she hurried across the room. Jerking the garment out, she thrust it into the maid's arms.
"Do you want me to press this, milady, and bring it back to you?"
Vivian shook her head vigorously. She closed the maids hands over it.
"You're giving it to me?"
Vivian snatched the garment out of the girl's hands and ran to the door. She jerked it open and tossed the habit out into the hall.
"Oh." Addie's eyes sparkled. "You want me to throw it away."
Vivian flashed her a brilliant smile. Crossing to her trunk, she flung back the lid.
Addie broke into a smile. "I don't guess there's anyone that needs to tell me what to do with these. I’ll get all your clothes unpacked as fast as may be. And pressed and hung too," she promised. "That's what I used to do below stairs, but I just came in two days a week and m' mum was right anxious for me to get more work cause—”
She continued to chatter amiably as she began to pull garments from Vivian's trunk. Feeling as though she had done a day's work, Vivian climbed back into bed to finish her chocolate. Before she realized what had happened, Adeline had limped out the door with an armload of clothing and no fire stoked in the hearth.
A year ago Vivian would have rung the bell again. Now she merely slid from under the covers and stalked gamely across the icy floor. Her training in the monastic life stood her in good stead as she began to stoke the fire and add coal from the scuttle. When a bright flame rose out of the grate, she scampered back for the second time to thrust her feet beneath the still warm bedcovers.
Mentally, she cursed Mrs. Felders. The woman had been her enemy from the minute she had entered the hall with poor Sister Grace. But why? The housekeeper obviously was privy to the earl's plans. And quite a lot more besides, Vivian thought nastily. Still it was not the housekeeper's place to approve of them?
If Vivian were truly mistress of the house, her first act would be to discharge Mrs. Felders. The cleanliness of the house, the condition of the furniture, the food, the service, all bespoke the woman's inefficiency if not downright neglect. But perhaps they bespoke something else. Perhaps her position was unassailable.
Vivian shrugged. A mistress had certain privileges. Perhaps Mrs. Felders was only nominally the housekeeper. She tried to picture Emma Felders lying beneath the earl doing what Piers had done to her. While she had little problem with that, the difficulty came in picturing the earl in Piers's place.
Best forget the idea of discharging Mrs. Felders. Vivian shook her head and reached for the bellcord again. She could not lie here in bed all day.
The riding habit alone hung in the closet now.
She would take a ride. She glanced at the window. The sun was shining brightly. Never mind the cold. She had been determined to ride yeste
rday, when she had some thoughts of trying to escape. No more of that. She would put those thoughts away. Today, she would merely ride as the earl himself had said she might.
Yes, a ride. She had been pent up too long. She would let the winds, no matter how chill and strong, blow away some of the lingering fear and pain.
************************************
The effort to get a mount proved so difficult that she began to doubt the ride would be worth the effort. After almost half an hour during which time she had handed notes to three different people, she descended the steps in front of the house.
The light snowfall had stopped during the night, and while the lawn was covered in crystalline white, the snow was already melting from the drive and lane beyond. The horses waited in the company of not one but two sullen-faced men who bore little resemblance to grooms. Moreover, if the grooms looked like farm laborers, the horses were certainly their animals.
Vivian's mouth curled in disgust at the sight of the chunky gray punch under the sidesaddle. An appraisal of the other mounts revealed them to be equally unprepossessing.
The shorter man, a weasel-faced lout, shuffled forward and laced his fingers to toss her into the saddle.
Gathering the reins, she patted the horse's shoulder. Barely fifteen hands high, the animal was obviously a cart horse of such great age as to be nearly white. She tugged on the rein, but it did nothing beyond flick an ear back in her direction. When she touched it with her crop, it lifted its head and opened its eyes. By a dint of strength she managed to haul its head around.