Thomas turned Priscilla toward the door, but kept his arm around her shoulder. She let her head rest against him.
“We will go to the sitting room, Pris. You can tell us all about it, and Rogers will bring some tea.”
Instead of retiring to the formal rooms downstairs, they remained on the same floor as the bedchambers. Their mother's sitting room had changed little since her childhood. The same brightly flowered curtains hung at the tall, east-facing windows, gave the room a warm, welcoming feel. Though it looked like the settees and chairs were recently re-upholstered, the same fabrics in similar colors beckoned her to sit and make herself at home.
If only her mother were still alive, she would know what to do, how to help her.
Thomas went straight to the bell pull while she and Anne settled on opposing settees. Within moments, a maid came to the door and her brother requested a tea tray. When he turned back to them, he hesitated, as if registering the strategic placement of his wife and sister.
Already he was forced to make choices.
Priscilla sighed when he sat next to Anne. She could have expected no less. After all, he had to live with the harridan.
“Now,” he said, “tell me what this is all about.”
Priscilla pulled a rumpled handkerchief from a pocket and dabbed at her eyes. Though sure her face was stained with recently shed tears, she stopped upon seeing Anne roll her own eyes. It was as if Anne thought she was trying for some form of drama. Which no doubt, is what Anne would do in her place.
“Robert is dead, Thomas,” she blurted out. “I buried him three days ago, then left the following day for home.”
“Oh, you poor dear,” Anne said, with a sympathetic tone verging on disinterest. “We are so sorry to hear of your loss. But Robert was an old man, even when you married him. What could you expect us to do?”
Thomas turned toward his wife, a look of annoyance on his face. “Anne, behave yourself. Priscilla is my sister. Obviously she is distraught. What does it matter Robert was old? He was her husband and we both know she grew to care for him despite their differences in age.”
“She can’t be too upset,” tossed back Anne in a low hiss. “She’s not even wearing widow’s weeds.”
Priscilla knew her gown, out of fashion for more than two years and pastoral compared to Anne’s, could never be construed as mourning attire. But she bit her tongue and held back the caustic response Anne’s attitude so frequently inspired.
Thomas gave his wife a quelling glare and retorted, “Anne.”
He turned his attentions back to her.
“What is it you want, Pris? What can we do for you? Offer you?”
Priscilla stared at her hands while she wrung her handkerchief in her lap. She refused to let Anne bait her. Robert made her promise to forego black, even gray or lavender. He had not wanted her to mourn. He wanted her to live.
“I know not, Thomas. I just felt I needed to return home. Needed to be with other people, family, for at least a few days, maybe a week or two.” She needed to find a man and quickly. “Damon, Robert’s nephew, will be arriving to take over the title and estates. I could not bear to be there to see it. To tolerate his avarice and self-righteous attitude.” She would do everything in her power to take the title and properties out of his hands.
Thomas rose and came to sit next to her. He placed his large, warm hands over hers. Priscilla raised her eyes to his. “Of course, you can stay, Pris. Stay as long as you wish. This is your home. You’re always welcome here.”
“But the house party,” Anne screeched. “We will have four couples here, and she will be an unmatched female.”
Oh, God! A house party. Priscilla was not sure whether she had just been blessed or cursed. True, there would be a number of gentlemen only too anxious to bed anything in a skirt. But the rumors she heard about such events led her to believe the sexual activities were raucous, if not disgusting. How could she lose her virginity under circumstances where each sexual conquest would be discussed, even bragged about? She would be humiliated if others should find out she remained a virgin after ten years of marriage. And then, if she were to get pregnant and the party-goers found out she was passing the child off as Robert’s. . . .
It would be a nightmare.
A knock on the door broke her reverie. Rogers brought in the tea tray. He set the tray down, bowed with appropriate formality, and backed out of the room.
“How would you like your tea, Pris?” Anne demanded, annoyance plain in her voice. She poured and prepared a cup for her husband. Her face still flush with anger, she handed the first cup off.
“Some cream, thank you, Anne.”
“Now, don’t worry, darling.” Thomas had yet to placate his wife. “I’m sure everything will work out just fine. I doubt if Pris is in any mood to be fraternizing with our house guests. She’ll probably keep to herself since she’s had such a shock. Grief does not expend itself in a day or two, especially when it is one’s husband who has been lost.”
Priscilla grasped the pendant at her throat, her fingers rubbing the contrasting surfaces. She best calm the ruffled feathers of her hostess. She had not meant to be a burden. How could she have known a small horde of sexual deviants planned to descend on Asheville Manor?
“Anne, please don’t be worried or upset. If it would be easier for you, I will take my meals in my room. I will make myself as invisible as possible. I did not know you had company coming or else I would not have imposed.” She needed to contrive some way to select a possible partner without intruding upon Anne’s plans.
The offer seemed to be enough. Anne’s face relaxed as if this conciliation would soothe her concerns and distress. It seemed she was to say more, but the knock returned on the door followed by the reentry of Rogers.
“The guests have begun to arrive, my lord. Lord and Lady Dimsford are in the foyer and the Earl of Blackston’s carriage is coming up the drive.”
Thomas stood and took his wife’s hand. “I’m afraid, Pris, we must leave you to your own devices for now. I’m sure the staff has already prepared your room. You know where it is. Anne and I must greet our guests. We’ll talk more later.” With a gentle tug of Anne’s hand, her brother led her out.
Priscilla slumped in her chair. Anne was such a trial. If it were not for her brother, she would never have come home.
She rested only a moment before deciding she best go see what the pickings were. She would rather not go to dinner, if she was even invited, without knowing what she was up against.
Chapter 3
Priscilla paused at the banister at the top of the stairs, where she could look down on the reception of the guests while remaining unobserved. The large crystal chandelier already had its many candles lit in preparation for the coming evening. The black and white marble floor was polished to a high shine, and Rogers was standing as straight as his aged body would allow. He closed the door he’d opened after the first arriving guests.
Lord and Lady Dimsford had already entered the foyer. Thomas, chatting with her ladyship, seemed oblivious to the young thing’s fluttering eyelashes and coquettish smiles. Though she had some beauty of her own, it looked harsh from the layer of powder she had applied. And her gown—how had she managed to dampen her pale pink bodice while still in the carriage?
Anne was doing her best to keep Lord Dimsford from crawling on top of her right at the door. He clutched her hand in his and kept taking it to his mouth to kiss it. Was that his tongue touching her sister-in-law’s skin?
Though Lady Dimsford was pretty enough, with rich black hair and brown eyes, Priscilla had no idea how Anne would be interested in jumping into bed with his lordship. He was fat, to say the least. How would a man of such girth even make love? His tendency for weight alone would dismiss him as a possible surrogate for Robert, who had grown thinner as he a
ged. And his coloring was all wrong too. Robert’s skin tone had been a healthier shade, at least until the last few years, not pasty like Dimsford.
Rogers opened the front door again as the Dimsfords retired for refreshments in the formal drawing room.
This must be the Earl and Countess of Blackston, as Rogers indicated it was their carriage coming next up the drive.
The echoes up the staircase increased when a woman, one could describe as abundant in figure, with hair the color of carrots, entered the foyer. Her shrill voice seemed to reverberate from the walls; her laugh reminded one of a caterwauling cat. She had the temerity to take Thomas’s hand and place it against her huge expanse of chest, knocking the fichu out of place so Thomas’s hand touched bare skin.
Meanwhile, Anne was greeting a stick of a man not more than five feet and eight inches high, with hair almost as red as his wife’s. He kissed her on the cheek, then whispered something in her ear. Anne laughed and squeezed the lord’s hand as he bowed over hers. While his wife was occupied, the Earl of Blackston proceeded to kiss Anne’s wrist, then moved right up to her elbow. It was when her sister-in-law gave him a slight shove that he desisted. With his derisive chuckle, the couple followed their predecessors toward the drawing room and the front door opened yet again.
For a moment, Priscilla leaned back against a nearby wall, out of sight. Lord Blackston would not do either. Though thin enough in build, his brown eyes and red hair would never pass the scrutiny of the neighbors.
These were the attendees of a house party? Who would want to swap intimacies with these people? Were Anne and Thomas so bored with each other and so lacking of friends of finer quality they would settle for these? But then, maybe friends of better quality would not be interested in swapping their wives and husbands.
Another raucous laugh, this time in a man’s tenor tones, rolled up the staircase bringing Priscilla back to spying on the latest arrivals.
A man looking closer to Robert’s age than Thomas’s was chatting it up. His pronounced over-bite eliminated him from contention, while his behavior reinforced her repulsion. On one side, he had his arm around a younger, mousy looking woman, who must be his wife. While, on the other, Anne stood as dignified as she could with the man’s hand on her backside. From her perch, Priscilla could see Edward, Squire Tilden, for that was what her brother called him, squeezing Anne’s derriere with relish. Thomas seemed oblivious, while they exchanged pleasantries. When Mrs. Tilden, whom Thomas called Charlotte, released herself to remove her wrap, Priscilla was stunned to see the rouged nipples of her meager breasts through sheer fabric.
Ugh. These people were disgusting. She leaned back again, grabbing her pendant. How could she stand to touch and seduce one of these gentlemen? Maybe she would leave tomorrow and see what she could find at one of the inns on the way home. He might not be a gentleman, but he might at least look more appealing than any of these. And have a closer resemblance to Robert.
She heard Rogers greet yet another guest. Then her brother shouted, “Brandon, bloody hell, you’re the last person I expected to attend. Has your father improved so?”
A deep, warm voice rolled up the stairs and through her body, its resonance touching every cell. Her heart skipped. She was afraid to look around the corner and back down the stairs. She was afraid what she might see would devastate the tingling feeling that permeated her entire being. This could be the one. Maybe, if he was as ugly as a toad but matched Robert’s coloring, she could just keep her eyes closed when they went to bed.
Assuming she could get him into her bed.
She released her pendant, took a deep breath and girded her loins to peek at the latest addition.
Her heart stuttered in her chest.
He had to be at least six feet tall. He looked Thomas straight in the eye, and Thomas was more than six feet. His hair, not the pale yellow of Anne’s but the rich golden color gained from the sun, waved then curled over his collar at his nape. He was lean and muscled, the way the ton described the Corinthians when she was a girl in London. He had his large hand in Thomas’s, and they were shaking as if to rip each other’s arm off.
Priscilla thought about the portrait of Robert in the gallery back at Rutherford Park. Though she had not seen it since she was a newlywed, she was sure her late husband was no more than thirty-five when it had been commissioned. He would have been happily married to his first wife, Amanda, and still hoping for an heir. Before his illnesses, arthritis, and time had crippled and ravaged his body, Robert had been tall, blond-haired and green-eyed.
The man before her would be perfect. And even she could see his desirability as a bed partner.
If she could manage to play the role of seductress.
If he would be willing to be seduced.
“Baron Brookfield,” Anne sidled up to him. “What a wonderful surprise. Asher told me of your father’s illness so we had no hope to be graced with your presence.” She presented her hand for his attentions.
Lord Brookfield bowed over it but when he was done, Anne held onto him, sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow. Her eyes were alight with interest as she looked up into the newcomer’s face, despite the fact his lordship’s attention returned to Thomas.
“Father sent me away. He said I was hovering beside his bed for more than three months and needed to be with younger people, to relax and share some enjoyment. I swear he would have saddled my horse if he could have raised himself from his bed. Estella agreed so I came. I hope you are not inconvenienced.”
Who was Estella? His sister? His betrothed? His wife?
What should it matter to her since she only wanted the child and not the father?
“We are most delighted, my lord,” crooned Anne. It became obvious to Priscilla that Anne had Lord Brookfield in her sights and would be happy to forego the other rabble.
“Come into the drawing room for refreshments.” Anne regained his hand to lead the way.
Lord Brookfield held back. “If it would not be too much of an inconvenience, I would like to freshen up. I came by horseback and fear I am as dusty as the road itself. With any luck, my carriage and belongings should arrive with my valet, Simpson, shortly.”
“Of course,” Thomas said. “Rogers, can we make a place for my old friend?” Not waiting for the butler’s reply, he slapped his friend on the back. “Brandon, this weekend will be like old times when we were dissipated rakes in London.”
“Immediately, my lord.” Rogers bowed. “If you would be so kind as to follow me.” They both turned toward the stairs.
Panic seized Priscilla. They were coming her way. She whirled around to escape to the sitting room. She would have to wait before she could make her way back to her rooms.
And she would have to make a plan. She was no longer an unmatched female, so more than likely, she would be invited to dinner and activities. She would be introduced to Lord Brookfield. So, she would have to strategize a seduction. She saw Anne’s interest, and Anne had far greater experience and allure than she.
What must she do to bring his lordship’s attention her way?
Chapter 4
From the doorway, Brandon perused the collection of dissipated aristocrats in the drawing room. He wondered again why he obliged his dying father to participate in this folly. It was over a year since he frequented such dissolute activities in town. Could he not be of more use on their estate than fretting over his father’s fate from afar? True, he had been at his father’s bedside for three months. But it was a loving son’s duty to do such things. And at this point, he could not see any personal restoration of energies would occur from an activity such as this.
He no longer had any interest in bedding another man’s wife. Those days of playing the rake passed when his succession to his father’s title of Viscount and the associated responsibilities became imminent. And none
of the ladies flaunting their charms here held enough allure to make him waiver from that path. He was glad he had no wife to bring to such a debauched entertainment. Had he a wife he cared for and respected, this would be the last form of ton association in which he would permit her to participate.
His betrothed, Estella, would be no less than appalled.
Brandon took a deep breath, and strolled to the fireplace to keep a deliberate distance while he studied the tableau before him further. He could feel the sexual tension and energy in the air.
Though he met most of these people before, he had not fraternized with them much. Dimsford’s wife, Sally, had her come out maybe three years before. But she held little attraction for him even then. It seemed she had been more than happy to marry for great wealth and title, than for love.
Baron Haddon and his wife, Helene, arrived after Brandon was shown to his rooms. No more than three and twenty years old, the young baroness showed little interest in her husband, placing herself as far away from him as the room would allow. When she looked in her husband’s direction, seeing a withered old man with gray hair and an ear trumpet, her lip curled in distaste.
He could swear Baron Haddon and Squire Tilden were acquaintances of his father. Both outlived their first wives, then revisited the Marriage Market for younger blood. He doubted the matches were successful, especially since both couples were here and their ladies looked as interested in alternate liaisons as did their husbands.
Blackston and his wife Brandon knew of, but had never met. Not regulars to ton activities, neither had much of a reputation there.
It was difficult for him to study the scene without making eye contact with any of the women. And it seemed, at the moment at least, each of them set her sights on him, including their hostess, Asher’s wife, Anne.
If Love Were Enough Page 2