Ferrymen plied their small boats below where she stood, going constantly from side to side. Pleasure vessels and the ones carrying cargo went with the tide and against it. The Thames must have been the busiest river in the country. It acted as thoroughfare, transportation, and amusement to the ever-growing populace. She would have to take care. She didn’t want to send her book down as a gift to an unsuspecting river traveler. A stray breeze whipped against her cheek, nearly dislodging her hat. Automatically, Dru reached up to secure it and lost her grip on the parcel.
It tumbled into the water, leaving barely a splash. A few papers floated out and landed on the surface.
There went her youthful dreams, her revenge on people who had snubbed her, her desire to be beautiful, gracious, admired by all. It disappeared beneath the gray, murky depths. The water would cleanse it, make it unreadable, and then rot it down. It would become part of the mud that seeped out and provided a tomb for a multitude of crimes. People who fell in were rarely recovered or never came out alive. The river would drag them down as human sacrifices. The ancients worshiped it. Now, Dru gave thanks to the river, to God, and to anyone else who was listening for accepting her sacrifice.
She ignored the sadness coursing through her system and depressing her thoughts. She went back to the road, dodging the carts, carriages, and riders who constantly threatened to run her over, and smoothed the skirts of the gown she had probably ruined. Not that she cared, and after her talk with Forde, the maid had behaved much better. Dru should have spoken to her years before instead of putting up with the barely there tuts and humphs and the cold shoulder when she did something to upset her maid.
The reminder buoyed her spirits, and she went back to the end of the bridge with a spring in her step.
Goodbye the overlooked, reticent girl she had been. Dru was to become a duchess, and she determined to act like one.
Chapter 9
Despite her resolve never to write a word of fiction again, Dru still kept her journal. She wanted to leave something for the future. From there she found it easy to let her imagination fly, but after a flirtation with appalling poetry, she returned to her favorite medium. She would write improving stories and moral tales for children. That was how she would make amends.
But on the Monday after her fateful visit to the horrid man who had stolen her manuscript, Dru passed a bookshop to see her own creation displayed in the window. Fortunately, most people were also passing by. There did not seem to be a queue.
Her father had reported that he could not get a copy for his own perusal, and Dru let out a sigh of relief. That must mean Wilkins had done as he promised. A few copies remained in circulation, but that was all. They would pass unnoticed.
On the Tuesday, she was to attend the theater with her betrothed and his mother, who had arrived in town with her husband the day before. Then they would make their appearance at a ball. Her trousseau had mostly arrived. She’d had it packed and sent to the new house she was to occupy in less than two weeks. Everything was getting so close. Her reality was swooping down on her before she had time to assimilate it. Oliver was the center of it all.
She went down to the drawing room and met his mother and her husband, both charming people and delighted to see their son marry. Tactfully, they went down to the carriage first.
When she offered her hand, Oliver took it, but instead of bending over it, tugged her into his arms and kissed her senseless. She bathed in his regard. If this was not love, she didn’t know what was. He spread his hands over her back, gripping tightly as if he didn’t want to let her go.
She drew back with a shaky laugh. “I will not be fit to be seen.”
“You are always fit to be seen, sweetheart.”
Oliver didn’t throw endearments around carelessly, as other men did. Dru cherished every one. He warmed her, made her feel wanted and safe. And entirely his. The force of his personality made up for her lack, the way people barely noticed she was in the room. She hadn’t minded before now, but she would become strong. For him, and for what he represented.
He kissed her again, and she stretched up eagerly to return it. He groaned into her mouth and drew back, gently urging her away. “You undermine my resolve, Dru. I want you badly. Can we bring the wedding forward, do you think?”
“By running away?” Not that it mattered now. The release of the book had passed unnoticed, and she’d disposed of the manuscript. There would be no more books. But he’d offered it now, when it was too late.
He smiled. “Although the idea of a week spent with you fleeing to Gretna tempts me almost beyond reason, a little commonsense remains. Imagine how disappointed we would make our families. The ceremony will be modest, but the wedding breakfast could go on for some time.”
Society considered the parading of tender emotion in public vulgar in the extreme. Men could weep and wail in Parliament, women could come to fisticuffs in the fashionable salons, but they must never show love or affection to their loved ones. Foolish, she called it. She would spend all evening ignoring the play and kissing Oliver, were it allowed.
He chuckled when she said so but stole another kiss. “As would I. Come, my poor mama and her husband will freeze to death, waiting in the carriage, and she is longing to speak with you. The night is unusually chilly for this time of year, so ensure you have a decent wrap.”
She sent up for her light woolen shawl, and when they stood in the hall, she allowed him to help her arrange it. Forde stepped back, holding Dru’s gloves. Oliver spared her a glance. “You will be moving with her ladyship?”
“Yes, your grace.”
“I prefer a simple ‘sir’ from my servants, unless in company.”
“Yes, sir.”
He favored Forde with one of his blinding smiles. A pang of foolish jealousy shot through Dru, but she quelled it easily. Oliver would have no interest in Forde.
How did Forde feel about that? Did she have a sweetheart of her own?
Suitably arrayed in hat, shawl, and gloves, she went out to the pretty town carriage that his mother owned. Her ladyship welcomed her warmly. “I do approve of my son’s choice, Drusilla. I have been speaking to him for this age to find a wife.”
“Oh.”
“And I have steadfastly told you that I would find a wife in due course,” Oliver reminded her. “I trust you’re happy I’ve now done so.” A slight note of brusqueness marked his words. Obviously he and his mother had had this conversation before. Probably more than once.
Lady Bixby smiled. That was where Oliver had his smile from—the sweetness overlaid with a touch of wickedness that in him reduced her to a quivering jelly.
“I can almost feel glad that he waited,” her ladyship continued. “You will make a perfect duchess. More than that, you will make a good wife.”
Dru liked Oliver’s mother. She had kept her youthful figure and presented an elegant appearance with a touch of frivolity. Her smiles came frequently and held a degree of sincerity, and she had just subtly offered to leave Oliver and Dru alone to enjoy their honeymoon by themselves.
Hastily, she turned her mind away from any thought of honeymoon. She would welcome their wedding night and what lay ahead joyfully. To be truthful, she couldn’t wait.
“We always enjoy the season,” she said primly. But she should have known better. Oliver noticed her pause. “You don’t relish it as much as your brothers and sisters,” he commented. “I’ve seen you hiding at the back of the room with the spinsters and companions.”
“I like their company.” She spoke the truth. Those women, forgotten or never noticed in the first place, had a quirky society of their own and their own way of looking at the exalted personages before them. “I will not abandon them, at least those I consider my friends.”
“Good.” Oliver smiled warmly. He was sitting opposite Dru and her mother, leaning back, occasionally jolted by a pit in the road.<
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Outside, the sky was slowly darkening. Soon they would not need lights until ten, but after that the nights would draw in. Dru was never sure which part of the year she preferred, but this year she would have someone to snuggle up against in the cold of winter.
“Is your business legal?” she asked hesitantly.
“No.” He lost the smile, and Dru was sorry she’d asked him. “My brother is meeting with his physician and undergoing some new treatment. We are expecting his recovery to improve.”
“He will be well?”
“He will never be completely well.” Oliver leaned forward. “Indeed, I should speak to you about him. You will be a member of our family, and as a part of it, completely privy to our secrets.”
The question rose to her lips. Why did they keep Lord Charles a secret? Why did nobody ever see him? She had no clue, and neither did anyone else.
“Not here,” his mother said hastily. “Come to visit tomorrow. We’ll tell you everything then.” She covered Dru’s hand with her own. “Truly, you have nothing to fear. Charles lives quietly because he wishes it, and we honor that. The speculations that go around make him even more determined to retain his privacy.”
Yes, she could understand it. Sometimes she wished she could go into seclusion herself, but what chance did she have of that?
Lord Bixby, a distinguished man wearing sober but well-made clothes, nodded. “That would be best. I have met Charles once or twice, but even I am not allowed to visit without an invitation.”
And Charles had been ill recently. Maybe that was why he preferred to remain in seclusion. Nerves prickled at her stomach, but she smiled. “I would love to. Thank you. May I bring someone?”
Oliver exchanged a glance with his mother. “I will chaperone you, my dear. I think it would be best to introduce just you. If Charles is up to it, of course.”
Because Charles wanted complete privacy. Did he keep to one set of apartments and never go out? Doing that would drive her insane. If he wasn’t insane already. Her stomach clenched in apprehension. Was that it? Did he present a danger? His servants were in reality his warders?
She forced pleasant compliance to her face. “I’m looking forward to meeting him.” And the house. She had never visited, but with Oliver’s mother in residence, she could now do so.
As she alighted from the carriage and accepted Oliver’s arm, she glanced up at the façade of Drury Lane Theatre. Like the rest of London, the building was soot-blackened. It was a favorite haunt of the haut monde. Close to the theater stood King’s coffeehouse, Weatherbys, and other establishments where actresses and their clients gathered after the performance. They would not be going to any of those places, since only the demi-monde and worse went there. Of course, Dru wanted to, having a natural curiosity, but she would be condemned forever if she ventured there.
They would attend the play and then skip the rest of the evening’s entertainment and go to Lord and Lady Swithland’s rout. As Dru turned to ensure her mother-in-law was being looked after, she caught sight of someone she vaguely knew. The man bowed, but she spotted speculation in the man’s eyes before he turned away. Perhaps the woman approaching him was the cause. Most of her bosom was on display, and she had festooned her skin with black patches. “I wouldn’t trust a whore with all those patches,” she murmured, forgetting who she was with. “Who knows what blemishes she’s covering?”
A hoot came from beside her. Her future husband was grinning. “I never knew my betrothed was so worldly wise.”
Heat rose to her cheeks, and she wanted to die. She hadn’t meant to say anything like that aloud. “It’s having older brothers,” she mumbled. “We often heard things we weren’t supposed to. Mama used to threaten us with a thrashing, but she never went ahead with her promise.”
“I’m glad.”
They climbed the steps while their footman rushed ahead to open the door for them.
“I thought you would say that she should have beaten us often.”
“And ruin that perfect skin?” He watched her with a quizzical smile.
Now she was blushing even more, but he laughed again when she ducked her head to hide her embarrassment.
Although nobody had made any formal announcement, everybody knew about the betrothal. A few casual referrals to it, and the whole of London knew. All eyes turned to them as they entered the box, but nobody smiled, as she’d expected. Tilting her chin, Dru pretended she didn’t care and ignored the jealous cats who wanted to spoil her happiness.
The actors came on stage and the performance began. As usual, the level of conversation dimmed just a little, and the actors had to declaim and bellow to make themselves heard. Only Garrick could control a crowd, and he was not present tonight. The huge chandelier blazed above. “This is another social gathering. That is all,” Dru said.
Oliver, leaning with his arm draped across the back of her chair in a protective gesture, agreed. “Appearing here during the season truly tests an actor’s resolve.”
Had he ever gone to the green room after the performance? Actresses displayed their availability, and the conversation grew ribald. Dru had sometimes thought wistfully of the places she could never go. Her sister Claudia had inherited a brothel and ventured there, but Dru had never done anything so shocking. Perhaps she should have. She might not feel as wary as she did now.
“Our first appearance as a couple,” Oliver murmured. “Perhaps they are overawed. If someone else does not snap up a Richmond girl, we’re in danger of becoming the match of the season.”
“Oh, dear.” Dru didn’t mind very much. She was used to being stared at. With the guest list to the wedding breakfast filled, her trousseau ready, and most of all, that damned book taken care of, she had nothing to fear.
A small part of her regretted losing the manuscript she’d spent so many years on, but she was determined to make the best start to her marriage. Her fondness for Oliver had blossomed the more she saw of him. He set her on fire. Every kiss and gentle caress made her want more. Once or twice he’d kissed the tops of her breasts, but that was all. Enough to give her a taste of what was to come. She anticipated her wedding night with eagerness. Infuriatingly, he wouldn’t go beyond a certain point. But in less than two weeks, she would have it all. And so would he.
The people in the boxes opposite were staring, chattering behind their fans. Surely Dru’s betrothal would not cause such disturbance? Now and then they would flick a glance at her, as if afraid to meet her eyes.
Dru began to feel uncomfortable. Oliver moved closer to her. Lady Bixby shifted in her seat and readjusted her skirts, smoothing over the fine white silk. Her fingers caressed the tiny rosebuds embroidered there. Dru was wearing her favorite green damask, but even that did not give her a comfortable place to retreat into. “If you feel ill at ease, let your appearance speak for you,” her mother had told her once, and Dru took that advice now.
At the first interval, nobody came to see them. Once their engagement had become known, Dru and Oliver had received many more visits and congratulations, sincere or otherwise. None came tonight. People murmured and kept looking at them. What was wrong?
Fear crept up on Dru. It couldn’t be possible. So few copies of her book were available that the hundreds of people in the audience could not have read them all.
Then someone called from the gods, the level of the audience so high it could cause nosebleeds. “Prince of Tirolly! Free the princess. Give her what she wants!”
Raucous laughter rocked the audience. Even the actors on stage joined in, seeing when they had lost the attention of the audience.
Except for Dru. Determinedly she turned her eyes to the stage.
That was worse. The actors improvised, using the names of her characters. They referred to Drusetta, the heroine—Dru tried very hard not to groan aloud—and the hero, one Desidero, the wronged prince. The audience hissed wh
en they spoke of the Prince of Tirolly. They cheered when the hero of the play compared himself to Desidero.
Oh, God. They had read it. Yesterday she had thought she was free of the curse, that tossing the manuscript into the Thames had marked the end of her youthful foolishness, but no. Wilkins had published the book anyway and produced all the copies he wanted.
She would destroy him. She’d tell her brothers and they’d— But that wouldn’t help her now.
Although Wilkins had said he’d known her, he could well have been lying. She could pretend she was as much a victim as anyone else, and someone as yet unknown had written the wretched thing. Why would anyone associate her with the author of this scurrilous tome? Knowing what came next in the story sent her anxiety rocketing. She had a vivid imagination. Using the secret cache of documents and prints she’d found, she’d gone further than anyone since John Cleland scandalized society with his account of the life of a woman of pleasure. She’d recklessly put the two brothers in a carriage, and at the end of the first volume, the vehicle had crashed. She admitted she had the idea from the story of Oliver and Charles, but then— With relief, she recalled her rewrites. She had taken the brother out, given the villain a nephew instead, taken away his scars. Carriage accidents were common. Nobody need associate her revised manuscript with the prince.
They must not know. She wanted to leap up, run all the way home, and lock the door to her room. She wanted to go now. But that would be to admit culpability, to show her guilt.
Oliver had not missed her tension. “I will find out what this is about,” he murmured, his breath hot in her ear. “And I will deal with it, if necessary. Do not concern yourself, Dru. Would you like to leave?”
Dauntless (The Shaws) Page 14