And the bride, he mustn't forget the charming bride, who gained a household to run, and more money to spend; a man to manage, and, if a virgin, rescue from becoming an old maid, or if already some man's mistress, respectability. Yes, all parties profited nicely.
Well, he was a married man now, and no one could accuse him of marrying his wife for her dowry. She had come to him with only the clothes on her back, not even that, if the truth be known. He suddenly remembered how he had told Beckingham that his wife could come to him as naked as the day she was born, and by God, so she had! If he didn't hate Beckingham so, he would have to commend him on his masterful touch of having taken him at his word, and place her naked in bed with him. He: had to admit that Beckingham had outdone himself this time.
His thoughts raced on to Beckingham drugging them and stripping them like a grave robber robbing the dead, and he felt a sudden rage rise in him. Yes, he would have to find a suitable way of dealing with Sir Jason Beckingham, he thought grimly.
The Marquis stared into his brandy glass, seeing long slender legs, one outstretched and lathered in soap, red-gold hair piled up on her head curling riotously from the steam of the bath, her white shoulders and firmly-rounded breasts Hushed pinkly from the warmth of the bath water, and glow from the fire.
She was a beauty, he thought, as he remembered the feel of her soft body beneath his, and her sweet-tasting mouth. At least Sir Jason hadn't bedded him with a simpering, long-faced chit, crying for her mama. If he wanted to really punish Buckingham, he would thank him for helping him to find such a perfect wife.
He suddenly felt an uncontrollable, hot anger surge through him at the thought of Beckingham seeing Elysia naked, touching her as he had undressed her. He could not explain it, but he felt murderous towards Beckingham. Elysia belonged to him now, and no one but he had the right touch to her.
Elysia. Yes, she was his now, and he wanted her. He had felt attracted to her the moment he laid eyes on her as she stood warming herself before the fire at the inn. She was the first Woman who had ever taken a dislike to him, which was something of a novelty. Most women, he thought without conceit, would have desired a liaison with him, but not the lovely Miss Demarice, who had looked at him disdainfully and coolly, a note of censure in her husky voice–and then had fought like a wild creature in his bed. He hadn't felt like charming her, or any female, after that scene with Mariana. In fact, he had felt distinctly antagonistic towards all women, venting his disgust and cynicism upon the first one he met. A flame-haired, green-eyed witch, who had captivated him against his will, and destroyed his misanthropic intentions by the sway of her hips.
She might need handling with that fiery temper of hers, but he would hate to have been tied to a milksop. Rather a vixen, he thought with an anticipatory gleam in his golden eyes, than that.
He drank off the last of his brandy, and left the room, taking the stairs two at a time, heading down the long corridor to the master suite, his long strides measuring off the distance in less than a minute.
He entered Elysia's room and walked toward the bed, standing quietly beside it. He looked down upon the sleeping figure in the big bed as the lighted candle held in his hand sent a golden glow across her face.
Elysia's hair spilled about the covers, red in the glowing light. Her thin hand was lying outside the cover, his gold ring looking foreign against her pale white skin–a visible mark of his domination and hold upon her.
He bent down, careful not to drip the hot, melting wax onto her exposed hand, and looked hungrily at her lips, the full lower lip slightly parted, her thick, dark lashes shuttering the eyes he wanted to look into, to lose himself in. The hollow at the base of her throat caught his eye, and lowering his head he placed a soft kiss in the space fashioned for his lips, while he entwined a piece of long hair through his fingers, soft and silky to his touch
She was murmuring softly in her sleep, and he saw a tear slip out of the comer of her eye and run slowly down her cheek. He put a finger out and caught it, curiously feeling its moisture on the tips of his fingers.
He felt the heat in his body ebb away, and turning abruptly away from the bed, he left the room. He was no better than a dog after some bitch in heat. He was damned if he was going to act like some animal over that red-haired wench in the other room. To hell with her, he thought savagely, as he stripped and got into bed alone.
Her skirt was of the grass-green silk,
Her mantle at the velvet fine,
At ilka tett of her horse's mane
Hung fifty silver bells and nine .
15th Century Ballad
Chapter 7
Elysia sat staring out of the large, mullioned windows at the choppy, gray sea below, its angry waves crashing heavily against the rocks at the base of the cliff. White sprays of foam were shooting high into the air like giant uncontrolled fountains. The rain which had been continuous since the night of her arrival over a week ago had finally ceased, giving way to sullen overcast skies.
Elysia shivered and stood up, hugging her shawl closer about her shoulders as she moved to sit in a green and blue-Striped satin chair before the hissing fire. The logs were shooting orange sparks as they burned brightly in the hearth.
Of Lord Trevegne, she had seen little, except at dinner when she was allowed the privilege of his company–a privilege she wished she could forego. Those few hours with him became either unbearable with his biting sarcasms and cruel remarks, or completely unnerving to her with his cold penetrating stares–she didn't know which was worse.
Unfortunately, it was always just the two of them, no sister or other members of his family whom she could become friends with, only a younger brother in London, who was probably just like Lord Trevegne–and she could hardly cope with him, much less another just like him. Why couldn't he have had a large, warm family? She could have lost herself among their chatter, and been protected from his constant displeasure. He would hardly single her out in a family gathering as he did with just the two of them dining at that long banqueting table with the crystal and silver gleaming under the sparkling candelabras.
What had she done to displease him? She never saw him long enough to do anything to cause him annoyance. He prowled around the great house like a caged bear, growling at anyone who made the mistake of addressing him. Even Dany was not immune from his foul temper.
Elysia sighed dispiritedly and looked down at her old woolen gown. She hated the sight of it, but her other two dresses were in just as poor condition–if not worse–and hopelessly out of style. No wonder Lord Trevegne could hardly bear the sight of her, averting his eyes after only a glance at her, as if she made him physically ill. She had caught his golden eyes brooding on her several times however, with a speculative gleam in them until he noticed her look, and scowling heavily, dared her to speak.
Elysia cringed at the thought of asking him for new clothes, or even the money to buy material so she could make something for herself to wear, but even as she gathered up her courage she thought of his unpredictable temper and remained silent.
Dany had been kind, tactfully ignoring her impoverished appearance, sensing Elysia would not accept pity or charity, but she could see the curious stares of the servants, and knew what they were whispering and gossiping about in the servants' quarters. Most of the servants were better dressed than the mistress of Westerly, so what could they be expected to think of her? Lord Trevegne's destitute bride.
Elysia stood up in vexation, walking around the big room in boredom. She couldn't help but remember the long, almost never-ending days of tedious work at Aunt Agatha's, but she had to admit she had never been bored–she'd always been too busy, or too tired. It would seem she was never to be happy. What was wrong with her? Was she never to find an in-between state of being? Either she was worked to death or bored to death. She should be able to enjoy her leisure–but there was something missing–companionship?
Elysia had found that Westerly was
run as smoothly as the intricate workings of a clock–efficiently and orderly–as it had for centuries. As the Marchioness, she was expected to do little more than select £lower arrangements and approve menus–menus that were faultlessly prepared by Lord Trevegne's French chef. And she never had been able to sit hours on end enjoying the lady-like arts of embroidery and petit-point; her mind always seeming to wander in various directions-along with her stitches. She might not have strenuous labor to do at Westerly, but she still existed in that no-man's land of not being a part of, or belonging to something. Dany had befriended her, but she was busy with the endless duties she had to perform to run the large mansion she had managed for almost twenty years. And with a household as large as Westerly, with its army of servants, Elysia was content to let Dany continue to run it–although Dany respected her as the new mistress, and consulted her about any major problem or decision. Elysia could see why Lord Trevegne loved the little woman; she was indeed a gem.
But no, she would not allow herself to mope. She was happy here. Who wouldn't be in this beautiful mansion? And the sea–the strangely alluring, but brutal sea that lulled her to sleep each night with its pounding lullaby. Lying awake each night, hearing her husband move about in. his room, wondering if that night would be the night he would come to her, demanding his rights. That was really what was bothering her, worrying her. If it hadn't been for that constant fear-then she would truly be happy here at Westerly.
Elysia picked up a small delicately-formed vase sprouting a bouquet of flowers and buds formed of small pink and white seashells. The whole salon, in fact, seemed to be an extension of the sea, with its dominant greens and blues of varying shades, intermingling with the gilt furniture. On a bright summer day the room would be beautiful and airy with the light streaming in from the large expanse of floor-length windows facing onto the sea. She could just imagine the room bathed in the rays of the setting sun, the Oriental carpets enrichened into deep reds and blues and golds, the tapestries hanging on the walls coming to life and gaining depth and the illusion of movement. But today, with the darkening shadows of oncoming winter and her despondent mind, it seemed cold and austere.
But every room in Westerly was just as magnificently furnished. Built on the ruins of an old Norman, fort that had once guarded the conquered land from further invaders, Elysia had been given a tour of inspection by Dany, and been surprised by the size and the splendor of this ancient home. She'd had no idea that Lord Trevegne was so wealthy. She had indeed suspected that he was not living in penury by the fine clothes he wore, the elegant coach and horseflesh he sported, and' his habit of traveling with a full entourage of liveried servants. He was also too commanding a figure not to have riches, his air of hauteur and arrogance signified wealth.
Elysia had seen the Gold Salon with its golden elegance and Queen Anne furnishings, the Red Drawing-room like a seductive lady bedecked in rubies-the dark reds glowing richly against the old, highly-polished mahogany. There was the dining room in colors of champagne and pink; the table long enough to seat a hundred, and seeming insignificant next to the banqueting hall that could, no doubt, seat five hundred hungry guests-but it was seldom, if ever used now.
But one of her favorite rooms was the morning room, facing east to enjoy the rising sun that warmed the room on clear days, the creamy-yellow, satin cushions and drapes a reflection of the sunbeams as they entered the room, making Elysia think of butter and honey pouring from the walls.
She'd lost count of the many drawing-rooms and bedrooms in the different wings of the house. Each room was carefully and elegantly furnished so each guest would feel privileged to sleep beneath a silk, canopied bed or delicately-painted ceiling.
Even the servants' quarters were well-kept and properly heated and ventilated for winter and summer, a far cry from the dingy and overcrowded servants' rooms at Graystone Manor.
But throughout all her explorations from cellars to attics, west wing to east wing, seeing every magnificent room and climbing countless staircases in the enormous house dating back before the reign of Queen Elizabeth, nothing could compare to Lord Trevegne's well-stocked library with its wall-to-wall shelves and spiralling staircase, which twisted up to a small loft with its large comfortable chairs. A wide window stretched down to the floor below and provided ample light to read by. Elysia had found this treasure trove only a few days before and now spent most of her time reading from the handsomely-covered volumes which she had filched from its shelves. She would read in bed in the early hours of the morning until her breakfast was brought to her, for she still rose early, unaccustomed, after her years with Agatha, to lounging lazily in bed. Or later in the day she would sit quietly up in the loft, carefully out of sight from overly-observant eyes golden ones in particular.
Elysia had missed the luxury of reading almost as much as she had missed horseback riding. Reading was the only inactive pastime she truly enjoyed, something that if she'd had the opportunity at Agatha's to enjoy, would have been forbidden. It was Agatha's contention that books were evil, and a· waste of time-giving people foolish ideas above their station in life.
But now she could enjoy reading all of the books that she desired. Never had she seen such a large selection of books, covering such a wide assortment of subjects, many of which would be considered unsuitable reading for a young girl. But Elysia had been educated far beyond the average female's approved academic curriculum, having shared a tutor with her brother Ian; she had read not only the Greek classics, but many of the popular eighteenth century novels like Robinson Crusoe and Gulliver’s Travels, and even Fielding's Tom Jones.
Lord Trevegne's library had all of her favorites, including the complete works of Shakespeare, and the young modem Romanticists; Byron, Coleridge, Keats and Shelly, who were just receiving their first taste of public approbation. She had been excited and surprised to find these romantics in Lord Trevegne's library, being a self-admitted cynic, but then Elysia supposed that even he would make some sacrifices to have a complete library. Also they were all acquaintances of his, and it was the least he could do to honor their friendship-especially since the volumes were personally inscribed by the authors to the Marquis.
Elysia leant her forehead against the cold pane, wondering where Lord Trevegne was this morning? Shrugging her shoulders she picked up a slim volume of love sonnets by Shakespeare and sat down before the fire, beginning to read, when the door was opened by Dany, who sailed in with the household keys jingling at her plump waist.
"Now here ye are, Lady Elysia," she said disapprovingly. "Ye didn't touch ye breakfast this momin', and here I was thinkin' we were puttin' some flesh back on those bones again."
"I was not especially hungry this morning, Dany," Elysia answered, closing her book without a glance at the printed words.
"Well, we’ll just have to prepare ye a good appetizing lunch, eh?" Dany said coaxingly, scrutinizing her young mistress's pale face with concern.
"Have you seen Lord Trevegne?" Elysia asked, pretending disinterest as she smoothed a crease in her dress and missed the relieved look that came to Dany's eyes as she realized what was amiss with Elysia–at least it was nothing physical.
"Oh, yes, early this morning, and growling like a bear to be let out, he was," she said clucking her tongue disapprovingly, while running her finger along the mantel shelf checking for dust. "And glad I was to see him leave."
"Where did he go?" Elysia asked in surprise.
"Out on the estate somewhere on that big, black brute of his.”
"He's gone out riding, then?" Elysia said enviously, wishing she could have ridden out into the cool air on a horse as powerful as Lord Trevegne's black.
"Aye, and a more vicious animal I've never seen! The Lord's had mercy on us that he's not been killed by that devil-horse!" Dany said in denunciation of the big horse.
"Oh, Dany," Elysia said chuckling, "he's a beautiful horse. And I should, for once, love to be with Lord Trevegne w
ho is out riding that horse right now," she added gaily, blushing as she realized the indiscretion of her words when she saw the odd look on Dany's face.
The door to the salon was opened by a footman announcing the delivery of Lady Trevegne's trunks and baggage from London. Elysia looked startled at the news, and looked at Dany in a perplexed fashion.
"But, I've no trunks, Dany. Surely there is some mistake."
"Well, now. We best go and see, hadn't we?" the older woman said matter of factly, leading a protesting Elysia up to her room.
There were three large trunks and several boxes and bags crowded together in her room as she and Dany entered.
"Oh, Dany!. There must be an error; these must have been sent for Lord Trevegne–not Lady Trevegne," Elysia said nervously, trying to stop the trembling excitement she was feeling at the sight of the very feminine-looking trunks of pale blue, and the lacy-edged hat boxes. Maybe they were for her, but how could they possibly be, since she had not had measurements taken, or been fitted by a seamstress for any new clothes?
Lucy, the lady's maid that Dany had provided for Elysia, was already opening the big trunks, and giving an excited screech as the door of one swung open to reveal a row of beautiful, gauzy dresses in a rainbow of colors.
"Oooh! Your Ladyship!” Lucy exclaimed in awe, as she drew out a cobweb-fine, white lace gown, its train floating about Lucy like a cloud as she lifted it carefully from the confines of the trunk.
"It's exquisite," Elysia breathed as she lightly touched its gossamer fineness, "but can it really be for me?" She turned to look at Dany almost beseechingly.
"Aye, they be for ye my dear," Dany said opening up another trunk to reveal satins and velvets crowded together. She reached in and pulled out a bottle green mantle, high-waisted and trimmed in fiery fox fur, and a matching muff and bonnet with a wide brim, trimmed with the same.
Devil's Desire Page 13