“I see that you have five candidates to choose from. Do you think an addition to these would help or hinder the decision-making process?”
Lady Harriet, puzzled, turned. “What do you mean Grandmama?”
“I mean -” here she snapped her fingers towards the still open doorway. “...the dresses that you ordered when you were last here have finally arrived.”
In came three footmen, their arms heaped with towers of boxes, hat boxes swinging from their arms.
“Goodness! Oh, let me see! How marvellous! Put them here... and here... thank you, thank you Grandmama!”
“Don't thank me child, I'm merely the messenger, thank your Papa.”
“Oh I will! I will! I mean I – we- already have. Dear Papa!”
With the footmen gone, Lady Harriet fell on the boxes and began tearing them open, lids and layers of tissue flying from her eager fingers, gasps of amazement falling from her mouth.
“Oh! Look! Constance! Isn't this utterly sublime!... And this!... And... Oh! This... This is surely better than anything Clara ordered. Quick Constance, undo me, I must try it on at once!”
Lady Harriet, forgetting her Grandmama completely, thrust her back at Constance, indicating that she should unbutton her dress. Constance chose her next words with care.
“It certainly is a match for anything that Clara has, Harriet, but it is a ballgown and what we need for tonight is a dinner dress. Shall we see which of these might do for tonight, and then once we've decided that, we can settle down at our leisure for you to try on the ballgowns. What do you think?”
The Dowager noted with approval the tone of Constance's voice and her choice of expression: calm, dignified, with just the right hint of authority. It brought the over-excited girl to her senses quickly, and without undue fuss. The Dowager had been impressed by Constance's bearing, seeing her about the house that day, detecting something in her manner which suggested that she was fitted for far better things than being a maid.
Lady Harriet, recalling herself, agreed that Constance's was a good idea, and, as the Dowager sipped the tea she had ordered, Lady Harriet set about selecting more possibilities for the evening dinner, while directing wistful sighs at the shimmering ball gown which Constance had hung on the dressing screen.
~~~~~
That evening, just after seven o'clock, Lady Harriet left her bedroom looking very pleased with herself. Her almost black hair, so difficult to style, was swept back and tied in a fashionable chignon, with just a few curls left loose to enhance her pretty face; she had finally decided on the new ivory silk dinner dress, with small soft sleeves and a short train. She looked prettier and more elegant, thanks to Constance's advice, than she'd ever dared to hope that she could look, and as she went to the stairs, she cast a backward look full of gratitude at Constance, who was watching her, smiling proudly at her handiwork, from the doorway of the bedroom.
Soon the dinner guests began to arrive and Constance remained on the balcony above the entry hall, watching them enter. The ladies, though not all exactly beautiful, or even pretty, looked resplendent in their fine dresses and glinting accessories, the Lords and gentlemen were elegant and commanding in their perfectly tailored coats, fine pantaloons or breeches, and perfectly fitting, highly polished footwear.
Though there were many very handsome men among the throng, there was one who stood, literally, head and shoulders above the rest, and from her eyrie, Constance could see many of the ladies' heads turning in this man's direction.
This was, of course, Peregrine Stapleton, the Earl of Blackwood. It wasn't just that, in his crimson-silk waistcoat and close-fitting jacket, he cut a finer figure than any of the men there, it was that there was a magnetism about him, independent of his dress, and even of his status.
He had, Constance concluded, not for the first time, a kind of weighty presence, an indefinable solidity about him, as if... how could she put it? He looked as if he were some god visiting Hades, shaking hands, and acknowledging dressed-up shadows. He was the realest man among them, of a certainty. Constance sighed, seeing him again, in her mind, naked, his thick hair loose and falling across his eyes, those eyes that burned like a lion's as he looked hungrily upon her nakedness spread like a feast beneath him...
She shook the image away, suddenly feeling overheated.
How she envied the ladies down there, even the old, ugly ones, who could shake his hand, and chat with him familiarly, his social equals! Here she was, stuck upstairs, only able to look, and sigh, and pine.
She would never, ever be in the position of Lady Trentham for instance, that skinny young woman, fluttering in front of him now, flirting so hard that one might be forgiven for expecting her to burst out of her overtightened stays. Constance would never – could never - be of his class. Could never, ever marry him. So what was the point of her leaning here, her throat becoming choked with bitter envy? She turned to go back to Lady Harriet's room, to make sure that all was in readiness for her return.
~~~~~
Late that night, Constance was sitting in the servants' parlour, finally having her supper, as the staff were bringing the seemingly endless supply of used plates, crockery and silver-ware to the kitchen to be washed, cleaned, and stored away. Her ears were ringing, not only with the sound of uneaten food being scraped off plates in the kitchen next door, and heated water from buckets being poured into the sinks, but with the aftermath of Lady Harriet's chatter.
From the moment that Lady Harriet had come running up the stairs, she had been gushing excitedly about all of those present at the dinner, particularly the young men, two of the handsomest of whom had insisted that they wished to see her again, and had been distraught when told that she would not, officially, be out until next year. Constance had listened to it all, or as much as her exhausted wits would allow her to, and now, with Lady Harriet safely – silently – in bed, Constance was gratefully sipping her tea and finishing a piece of rhubarb pie.
She was still savouring this delicious dessert when Mrs Wilson, the housekeeper, bustled in and, seeing Constance, came over, looking even more flustered than usual.
“Constance is it? Yes, Constance. Constance, his Lordship has rung for some port to be taken to him, would you mind? Everyone, as you can see, is so busy here, it'll be many hours yet before any of us sees our pillows, so I'd be most grateful if you would. Would you? I know it isn't your job, but you'd be helping me a great deal if you would, you see...”
Constance raised a calming hand to prevent further explanation from the flushed, heavily-jowled woman and agreed to go. How could she not?
~~~~~
She tapped at the library door and, hearing his voice, entered. It was obvious that, once again, he had not been expecting her, especially not here in Blackwood House, but it was also equally obvious that he was far from sorry that she had come, bearing his decanter of port.
Constance felt as if her dress was falling away, like strands of burning paper, under his gaze, so heated was it as she approached to put down the tray. Her trembling was visible as she stood, waiting for him to give her permission to leave, but - he did not give it.
“Will that be all my Lord?”
When he did not reply, she repeated it, feeling utterly naked in body and soul before his eyes.
“No, it most certainly will not be all... come, sit here, I wish to... talk to you. I'm starved for real words after that farrago of politics and economics and fashion and... balderdash at the dinner-table tonight. Come here...”
He stood, and extended his hand to her, obviously slightly foxed, but not completely so. There had been copious amounts of wine drunk in the course of the long evening. Quivering with desire once more – how did he do that to her, so very, very easily? - she let him lead her to a divan facing the cold fireplace. At the touch of his fingers she began breathing hard, everything but the two of them becoming far away, unreal, insubstantial. He indicated the spot on the divan where she should sit, and after examining her a moment, a
nd breathing hard himself, sat down heavily beside her.
“Now... now... how is Sir Thomas Browne? Have you been reading him recently?”
At least, Constance thought ruefully, he is trying to behave as if there were nothing between us – well nothing but a shared interest in books! But even as she formed the words to herself, his great, powerful hand was on her knee, cupping it, his other arm sliding along the back of the divan. She had better go, before... before... what was bound to happen again, happened. But she couldn't move, could only return the look he gave her, the long, penetrative look, the look which, without words, told her exactly what he wanted to do to her, and what, he knew, she wanted to receive.
He leaned forward to kiss her. She leaned forward to meet his lips. When their mouths touched it was as though they had met after crossing the desert, to bend and drink from the same oasis... He was kissing her neck, his hands were beneath her dress, while her hands were no less busy, tugging at his breeches, struggling to release his hardened manhood, yet even as she did so, she was muttering about how wrong it was, that they shouldn't... they couldn't....
“Forbidden pleasures are all the spicier my darling, and, as you can now feel, it's too late to withdraw.”
She had found what she'd been craving the past few days, what she had envisioned in such detail on the long ride to London. He stood, panting, freeing it, and, at the sight of it she slid low down on the divan, giving up all hope of resisting her desires, and his. He knelt and, drawing up her dress, applied his lips to her thighs. She groaned, and to stifle her groans, bit on her fingers. His kisses climbed higher, and her thighs swung apart without any conscious thought on her part.
She slid lower on the divan, beginning to curse herself already for giving way again, but she could not have stopped even if the Prince Regent himself had thundered into the room and ordered her to do so.
Indeed, the Prince, or perhaps the Dowager herself, could have walked in, as the door was unlocked, but even this realisation couldn't stop her from pleading for him to enter her, to take her, to...
“My darling....”
Half-kneeling, he slid his heated hardness into her, and holding the back of the divan to steady it against their motion, began moving inside her with long, lingering thrusts. Constance drew up her knees, and, with the soles of her now bare feet pressed against the damask of the divan, thrust back, and retreated, in feverish receipt of his hardness, with ever wilder movements... The pleasure was intense, even though they were rushed, knowing that this was not the time or place for a leisurely indulgence of their desires.
When they were finally spent, and after he had lain against her for a short while, kissing her neck and breasts, he stood up to put his clothing back in order. Constance still lay, dishevelled, her arm across her eyes. She had succumbed again! Given in to him – and herself! - without a struggle! Why was she so damnably weak!? Why? Because she wanted him. She wanted him. But not like this! Not like some whore taken in a brothel! And yet... had he forced her? No, of course not. And she had relished every second of it, and would do it again in a moment!
“I must go.”
She began putting her dress to rights and pulling on her shoes.
The Earl stood, with a glass of port, leaning against the cold fireplace.
“I wish you did not have to, but... I suppose you must.”
Though he was merely echoing what she had just voiced to herself, it was terrible to hear it. As if a judge had passed a death sentence. She stood, brushing her skirts into place, then hurried from the room without another word, not looking back.
“Constance!” But she closed the door on him and dashed up the staircase. “Damn! Damn! Damn! Why should she go? Do I want her to go? No. Never! And yet... Damn! Why is the world like this?”
But Constance did not hear the Earl’s heartfelt exclamation, to which there was, quite obviously, no good answer.
The bitter truth of the way of the world was felt quite clearly by both of them as the night advanced. Constance lay sobbing into her pillow high in the house, and the Earl sat, on the divan where they had so recently allowed passion to overcome them, numbing his perplexities and frustrations with port.
Chapter Seventeen
Constance awoke the next morning with her resolution to keep away from the Earl fully crystallised. It would be hard, but there was simply no other solution. She wanted him, and he obviously wanted her, at the very least physically, but if the only way that she could have him was hurriedly, secretly, furtively, clandestinely, it was impossible. And how long could it go on anyway? Until they were discovered? Until he tired of her and sent her packing? No, she would have to gird her loins with iron, be utterly stoic, and be strong for both of them, as he seemed unable – less and less able – to control himself.
All that day and the next, Constance managed to avoid him, though avoidance was made easier by his absence for much of the afternoon of the day of Lady Clara's Ball, attending to some business at Parliament. At six o'clock she watched, from the first-floor balcony, as he departed for the Ball with a dazzlingly dressed and highly excited Lady Clara, and a beaming Dowager. Constance’s duties for the day were over, Lady Harriet and Lady Amelia were playing backgammon in Lady Amelia's bedroom, and Constance breathed a deep sigh of relief. The desire to relax with a book came over her.
The thought of reading in her room didn't appeal, it was stuffy, and the bed was rather lumpy. How nice it would be to sit in one of the armchairs in the library and lose herself in Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire!
Catching sight of Mr Benton, the Butler, she decided to ask if it would be possible. After all, she lost nothing by asking.
Beneath Benton's highly starched demeanour beat a sympathetic, even playful, heart, and he gave her permission almost at once, after ascertaining that she really was going to read, rather than moon over some of the priceless ornaments in the room. So, shutting the door behind her, and wearing her best dress, she found the Gibbon and sat down with it, in one of the red leather armchairs, her feet up on a footstool.
Though the historian's masterly evocation of ancient Rome was as captivating as ever, she found her attention wandering. The divan on which she and the Earl had indulged their passion was the main culprit. In her mind, she could see him again, his chest heaving as he drove himself into her. The feel of his hot smooth skin beneath her hands! His moist burning kisses, spreading wild fire through her veins, the look and taste of his fiercely aroused manhood...! She got up and removed herself to the other armchair, facing away from the divan, and resumed reading. But then she began to recall their antics in his bedroom at Blackwood Chase. How he had stripped himself of all of his clothes - no man had ever been as naked as he had with her, for her husband had held onto his separateness when he had been with her, there had been no sense of abandon, no willingness to sacrifice himself completely to passion, to love.
Love. The word echoed in her mind. But did the Earl love her? Where did lust end and love begin?
Or were they both essentially aspects of the same – higher? - emotion? Constance had never been able to decide. All she knew was that one without the other was incomplete. But which predominated in the Earl's breast? Perhaps he didn't know himself? In many ways he was like a great boy, full of boundless, though carefully repressed, eagerness, with a great capacity for joy - she could sense that. Joy which, it seemed, had been lost from his life, from the moment of his wife’s death.
What a wonderful man, a wonderful husband, he would make, if that joy were liberated. She would love to be the woman who helped him do that... she would love to be the woman... because she was the woman... who loved him.
'Yes, why deny it any longer? I love him! I did try so hard not to, didn't I? But it's like trying to dam a flooding river with a few paltry sticks – impossible! I love him! I love his body, I love his mind, I love the way that he talks, I love that secret boyishness in him, I love his kindness and sensitivity and sense of justice and.
.. Oh, there is so much to love!'
~~~~~
At Lady Clara's coming out Ball, adoration was also in the air, though perhaps - except for one area – it was not as intense as that to be found at that moment in the library of Blackwood House. Lady Clara was having the time of her life. Her dance card was crowded, with names hastily scratched out and new ones added, for the young men were dazzled by this tall willowy blonde girl, with her exquisitely fine features and graceful deportment, and Lord Blackwood's daughter no less! She was seen as one of the greatest prizes in England, for the right man.
“You don't look as proud as you should Perry, look how your daughter lights up the whole place.”
The Dowager, fanning herself against the heat and the rather too-strong punch, was sitting with her friends observing the proceedings, and the Earl, briefly captured by her, was sitting at her elbow.
“I am immensely proud Mama. Though perhaps more proud of the recent change in her behaviour than of her dancing.”
“Yes, I have heard, and seen, that all three seem to have improved their manners.”
“More than their manners Mama – at least I trust it is so – their attitude has changed,”
“Good, very good Perry, and not before time. You spoiled them abominably. But how did this change come about?”
“I'd rather not go into it in detail here Mama, it suffices to say, that, thanks to a member of my staff at Blackwood Chase, I realised how far astray their behaviour had gone, and I saw that I must put paid to it, or have their characters go to the devil altogether.”
“You did well Perry, very well. Better late than never. And they do seem to be under a new influence.”
“I think that they are Mama. I pray that it lasts.”
“Oh, it will, I'm sure... Oh look... Clara is dancing with young Lord Bulmer. A bit of a rake I hear, though you'd never guess.”
The Dowager could feel her son readying himself to continue his wandering around the rooms – he seemed unusually restless and preoccupied this evening – and put her hand on his arm.
The Scottish Governess: Regency Romance Page 11