With real or feigned reluctance, he begged off from that night’s carousing.
“Then tomorrow morning, do to take a turn with us around Rotten Row,” urged Howgrave. “You must join us Mr. Thomas. We solve all of England’s many problems as we take the Serpentine.”
Alistair declined this offer as well, but explained his refusal.
“Although I once took a rail quite handily, I fear that since I took my wound I no longer look to advantage in the saddle.”
Howgrave said, “We shall enjoy watching those who do through the auspices of my landau. This, I insist.”
Alistair bowed in acceptance to the invitation.
It was in the landau that next day that Howgrave bid Mr. Thomas to oblige him by joining his campaign. With gracious good humour, Alistair again demurred, saying that there were far better qualified men than he. It took a great deal of arm-twisting to convince him to accept the proposal. Orloff was quite pleased to have obtained him.
Alistair’s own ambition had been temporarily satisfied to sit in a shared carriage around the Serpentine. It was apparent that Howgrave hoped to trade on his connection to Wellington. He was not offended. Any man of good sense knew inherently that one must use all one’s strengths.
When Howgrave once again invited Alistair to join him upon his nightly prowls, Alistair agreed. It would not do to appear too depraved or too priggish. They spent most of their evening at Vauxhall Gardens and finished that night at White’s. Engrossed in conversation, they took no note of the servitors therein.
Discharged from Pemberley without a letter of recommendation, Cyril Smeads stood behind the bar polishing glasses. Through previous connections, he had found a suitable position at the well-known watering hole for the aristocratic drinkers and their failed sons. It was a situation that many might have believed as beneath them. Truth be known, it was an office over which prospective agents fought tooth and nail. The wages were poor, but a man with a sharp mind, discrete tongue, and a total want of character could earn a substantial stipend.
For Smeads, procuring female companionship for members of the esteemed class took only the smallest adjustment to his already compromised ethics. He should have paid far greater attention to the patrons within his purlieu. There were those who would have paid him handsomely for the information.
Chapter 14
The Breeching
The hours before their guests began to arrive for the ball were full of bustling activity and, especially for Pemberley’s mistress, rife with angst.
Although the household was as well-prepared as any seasoned military battalion, Elizabeth was a bit out of sorts. They had not entertained so vast a number of guests for longer than she could recall. Fortunately, Mr. Howard was a master at dousing last minute fires of all sorts. One round through the ballroom and dining hall soothed her nerves. The frills and folderol were well in hand. Fresh flowers were in place and the floors gleamed as if glass. A pyramid of grapes, nectarines and peaches were excellently presented and the partridges were ready for roasting.
Whatever the gossips might have been whispering apropos the doings of certain members of their family, when they wanted to, the Darcys knew how to present a united front.
The only thing not quite ready for scrutiny was Mrs. Darcy herself.
In not yet ten years of marriage, they had held many galas, soirees, and parties. Such was their position in the county, it was their duty to host all manner of events, be it religious observations or harvest fests. As Mistress of Pemberley, Mrs. Darcy saw them not only a duty, but an honour. Although her husband was not, she was sociable by nature. Upon such occasions, it was she who clasped his arm to quiet his discomfort. Their upcoming ball, however, burdened her nerves. She felt unbecoming and lacked her usual self-possession. This state of disorder was of her own making. After all, it had been her husband’s wish that the ball be delayed.
Feeling bloated and tired, she wished that she had allowed him have his way.
Whilst sitting at her dressing table, she could feel the bulge in her belly. She stood and turned sideways for glance in her cheval mirror. What she observed was not promising. It had been necessary for the seamstress to let her gown out another inch. Had she not, The Mistress of Pemberley might have looked as if she was lately stuffed into a sausage casing. Just returned from a last minute pressing, her gown hung on a hook next to the window. Elizabeth prayed it still fit.
She slumped to her stool and looked glumly at her reflection. Wearing nothing but her chemise, she felt quite vulnerable. Hannah twitted about arranging her hair, but that made her even more fretful. Looking at the clock with apprehension, she knew she must prepare herself. It was a ridiculous vanity to be in low spirits. She attributed it to womanly melancholia. She was the owner of far too many blessings to be anything less than compleatly content.
Her thoughts were overtaken by what she observed in the corner of her looking-glass. She saw Hannah duck her head deferentially and withdraw. Elizabeth’s eyes followed her maid quizzically as she scurried through the door. Only then did she spy what sent the maid on her way.
It was Mr. Darcy.
He was still in his shirtsleeves and wearing knee breeches. It was a rare occasion for him to be seen without his coat when others were about. If he appeared thusly, he was in want his wife—and all that implied. It was not Hannah’s to question. It was Hannah’s to beat a hasty retreat.
Once the maid was gone, her husband’s frame filled the doorway. Beyond him, Elizabeth could hear doors opening and closing as servants scuttered from one dressing room to another with pressing cloths and hairpins. The house was full of guests and their many wants taxed maids and the corridors. Instinctively, she held a handkerchief to her bosom lest she be espied in déshabillé by other than family.
That was unlikely. Darcy broad shoulders blocked anyone’s observation of her person. Still, one would expect him to close the door forthwith. Rather, he remained still as a statue, making no move to come into the room. It was as if, perchance, he awaited her to bid him enter. He stood with one elbow resting on the doorjamb, the other hand at his side. He drew the back of his fingers to his lips and as did, his chin lowered. His gaze was penetrating—enough to make her drop her hand mirror. Had he been a bull in a field, she would have fled. Because that inclination struck her so strongly, she stood. As she did, she did not notice that her handkerchief fell to the floor.
Had she mentally furthered her metaphor in regards to her husband and the bull, her reason would not have returned with any greater haste. There was certainly no ambiguity in this gaze. His expression was copulatory. Her hand fled to her bosom as if to quiet the pounding in her heart. As she did not speak, he did—and his eloquence on the matter before them was unparalleled.
“Lizzy,” he said.
Her riposte was simply, “Eh?”
Had she the composure to rally and offer another, finer éclat, it was lost in the moments that followed.
He kicked the door closed. It was a full ten foot from thence to where she stood. He crossed them in no more than two steps. As she stepped backward, she was stopped by the edge of her dressing table. It mattered not, for he had overtaken her.
Before his fingers touched her, she anticipated him. Closing her eyes, a blissful foretaste of the pleasures he would bring to her body made her sigh.
But he did not caress her.
Rather, he did something just as familiar and, if possible, more esteemed.
Taking her face in his hands, he whispered, “My lovely Elizabeth,”
In that she had felt quite unlovely not minutes before, these simple words repaired her. She gave herself leave to enjoy his sentiment, basking in his devotion so compleatly that when his hand crept beneath the hem of her chemise, she was expecting it, desiring it, but not witting of it. His fingers often prowled the soft flesh of her thigh just above her stockings. It was a region particularly vulnerable to his touch. His encroachment stopped quite abruptly.
; She opened her eyes.
His eyes were looking directly in hers and his expression was not... salutatory.
“Pray, good wife,” he queried carefully, “What is that?”
It took a moment for her head (and other portions of her person) to be free of all manifestations of passion before she could answer that which he—most probably—knew. His finger hooked the edge of a two-legged garment worn by women of fashion.
They were all the rage on the Continent.
They were not at all common.
The most elegant ladies in London wore them, even Princess Charlotte (which she knew, truly, did not excuse them). The ladies of fashion made a show of flashing them when they stepped into their respective carriages.
They were made of lawn and some bedecked with the finest Belgian lace available.
It was said if they are to be worn at all, they are to be handsome.
She did so not want to be out of fashion....
Mrs. Darcy had silently practised every argument in favour of lady-breeches for some time. With her husband’s unflinching inquiry, those good reasons and explanations fled from her consciousness. When she spoke, she endeavoured to speak with authority. Her voice, however, suddenly turned on her and all she could do was squeak.
“They are all the fashion.”
His retort was short and to the point.
He said, “I do not like them.”
That was no great surprise. Mr. Darcy did not care to follow fashion. At least he did not admit to it. As she gathered her thoughts for a rebuttal, she considered whether to point out that the buff waistcoat that was a favourite the year passed had been cast from his wardrobe. Moreover, he no longer wore knee-breeches except upon formal occasions. Had she wanted to win the day, she could have reminded him of either of those facts. However, she thought better of it.
“Pray, how do they offend, sir?” she asked mildly.
The answer to that was most probably that they were on his wife and not another. Lest either forget, his hand encircled her calf; his finger, loosed from the offending garment, stroked her just below the back of her knee. Whilst engaging in this most pleasing activity, he gave her a plausible, if entirely erroneous, reply.
“The garment is immodest and worn only by women of easy virtue.”
She dared to laugh, saying, “They are said to be au courant for years in Paris....”
With that, his indignation knew no bounds. Indeed, he took his hand from her leg and turned his back to her. She placed the flat of her hand just below his shoulder blades. The one thing she did not care for was to engage in a disagreement over something so trivial. She would have thought he would have been amused—even impassioned. In a moment, he turned towards her again. His brows were knitted and his mouth was grim.
“So this is just another coruscation from the dashers of the haut ton? How is it that every time some abomination is instituted, it is always said that the French have been doing it for years?”
She sniffed, “I am sure I do not take your meaning, sir. However, I recall a time some years ago when so meagre an impediment would not have deterred you in the smallest way.”
He retorted, “I dare say that it does not upon this occasion either—was I so disposed.”
She raised her eyebrow—a blatant invitation. Accepting the provocation, he reached for her ankle and she made a small game of trying to keep him at bay. As she wriggled away, the tabletop rattled and a bottle of perfume was in danger of tipping over. Their skirmish was just that. Brief, but impassioned.
Clasping her fingers on the back of his neck, she said, “I am not inflexible upon this subject. Given the proper argument I am quite certain that I can be swayed.”
Having corralled her ankles, his hands began to search upward. It was a difficult expedition as are most into unknown territories heretofore uncharted. The expression upon her countenance was flirtatious, bequeathing him with the understanding that, in this quest at least, he was on his own. It was her prerogative to know how she got them on and therefore up to him on to how to remove them. Ere exasperation set in, he found the end of a ribbon.
“Hark, the bell-cord,” said he.
When he grasped it, she smiled, ready to explain how the garment met the needs of nature. Ere she could, a look of triumph overspread his countenance. But it only lasted a trice. With great haste another expression replaced it. This one was not foreign to her whatsoever. It had been several winters, however, since it had last been seen. It was at once seductive and impish.
He did not tug the ribbon. Indeed, he let go of the ribbon altogether. When he grasped the legs of her newly acquired drawers, she was a bit surprised, but not unduly so. Her husband was but making his preference known. This predilection, along with his unfettered desire, was set forth with undeniable vehemence. (And the predilection, the desire, and the vehemence, were accompanied by the very willing instrument wherewith he meant to employ all three.) The fine, thin fabric of her fashionable new drawers was easily conquered by he who desired most vociferously to conquer them. With one quick, almost fierce tug, they rent.
Alas, her lawn delicacies were shredded by his passion; her passion, their passion together.
Her thighs were then engirthed in soft gauze leggings as they engirthed him. Breathless, she felt her body sink as if melting, her trembling calves useless in want. Fluttering from her heart to her lips came forth the words of that affirmation.
“Yes. Yes. Yes, oh, yes! To be sure!”
Chapter 15
Conspirators and Concubines
“Please—not my face!”
To cry out was a severe humiliation.
Not once in her life had she ever begged. Indeed, Juliette had refused to plead for her life whilst pitching about in the tumbrel as it lumbered towards the guillotine. Therefore, when she was finally driven to throw herself upon the mercy of a mere man, it was not a passing event.
Her face was her fortune. Was her husband to despoil her delicate visage, the loss would be ghastly for them both. Howgrave knew that. In the throes of sadistic heat, it ill-behoved him not to take heed of her caution. To her great relief, her cries did reach him. When he came to his senses, she turned her head, determined to hide her disgust and abhorrence of both him and her capitulation.
“Bourgeois fool,” she hissed behind his back.
Having spent more than half her life being pursued by men of all nationalities, Juliette had come to question the average Englishmen’s voluptuous habits. (If those sons of aristocracy slouching about the clubs of the West End were utterly gauche in the nuances of pleasure, those born in the provinces were absolute louts.) Not unlike many men of his ilk, her husband was not schooled in the art of love. He had hopped on top of chambermaids and widows at will, confusing quantity with proficiency. Therefore, his ego was easily offended. If he happened to fail in the furrow, he cried like schoolgirl. She had to coax him to continue by employing evermore imaginative means.
Her gamesmanship in the boudoir was excellent. In her life as a courtesan, Juliette had engaged in all manner of services (wielding a variety of props). Thus, she was able to arouse her husband to heights previously unknown to him. It was unsurprising that he (like many before him) became quite devoted to her.
Bliss had an unhappy knack for abandoning those who come to expect it.
However eagre he was for her to keep his wick well-lit, his manhood began to fail him once again. Thus, she doubled her efforts, engaging two candlesticks, a pair of tongs, and a pretty Rambouillet ewe. But even those persuaders did not keep him satisfied for long.
She did not recall which of them introduced the notion of the lash.
When sheep and dildos did not bring him to achievement, she recognised that the time was at hand to whip his buttocks. It was a remarkably effective tool. Employing it, however, was a delicate business. When applying a cat-o-nine or the likes, one had to strike only the buttocks. If care was not taken, a scar would result. It was all in the wrist. Jul
iette was a veritable virtuoso with the switch, the lash, the rod. With the merest flick, her tiny hand had Howgrave howling like a she-wolf or shivering like a just-plucked pullet. Indeed, he took the instrument with more enthusiasm than a vestal maiden. (Had she been in want of her own desires enflamed, the sight of his pink, steatopygian bottom was not an encouragement.) As time passed, she had to ratchet the pawl ever more tightly.
Eventually, whatever her method, laying the strap to him was not enough to bring him to orgasm. To her great unhappiness, he desired to inflict pain—upon her. (She had proposed that they hire a surrogate, but he would have no one but his wife—Juliette saw that as quite touchingly pathetic.) Hence, a train of intolerable degradations encompassed her evenings—made even more so by the unhappy fact that he had no idea how to wield such an instrument. Understanding that her screams requited his passion, she employed her well-honed skills of pretence, elevating and sustaining her cries to maximum effect.
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