by Jude Knight
“I have no idea, Rede. Last I remember, I was at a house party just outside of Bath. What’s the date?”
“The date?” Rede raised his eyebrows, but answered. “The 17th of October.”
“Really? The last day I remember was the 14th. I went to bed on the 14th of October, and woke up in the early morning of the 17th twenty-five miles away and in the garden of a complete stranger.”
“Who were you in bed with?” Rede asked dryly.
Aldridge tipped his glass to Rede to acknowledge the point.
A servant arrived in answer to the bell pull. Rede ordered a full breakfast to be brought to the study. “If you’ve not eaten for two days, you’ll be hungry,” he observed.
“My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut,” Aldridge agreed.
He was still thinking about the woman he’d been in bed with, and the others who’d preceded her during the house party.
On the one hand, any husband whose wife warmed the bed of the Marquis of Aldridge had only himself to blame. If they paid more attention to their wives and less to games of chance, drinking, and pursuit of other women at the party, their wives would have no reason to stray.
On the other hand, husbands seldom accepted that point of view. At least six men at the house party would consider themselves entitled to be upset with Aldridge. Make that seven, since one betrothed gentleman also had a neglected lady. Aldridge never made a show of his amorous adventures, but ladies often used an affair with him to punish their spouses, and any of them might have dropped hints designed to do the most damage.
Presumably, the perpetrators did not intend to reward him with the delectable Rose, so what was their purpose in stripping him and leaving him in Perringworth’s garden? They couldn’t have known, surely, that Smite’s boys were on their way?
“Tell me about Perringworth,” he said.
Rede steepled his hands and considered for a moment. “He’s a younger son. Brother’s a baron just south of Bristol. They’ve had a falling out. Perringworth had a legacy, and he’s blown it, by all accounts.
“A loose fish, that’s certain. And a big bruiser of a man. Has a reputation as handy with his fists, but lousy with money. Can’t resist a game of chance, and always thinks he’ll win the next one. Very jealous. Rumour has it, he put the Rose out at Niddberrow to keep her away from competitors. Likely, your friends thought it would be a fine joke for him to find you naked in her garden.”
Aldridge nodded. “Not much temptation in Niddberrow, I would think. Not many who would even acknowledge her, I expect.”
“Poor girl. It can’t have been much of a life for her.”
“Better than the one he was selling her into. Her and little Sarah.”
Rede swore, low and long, not repeating himself once in a several sentences. Aldridge agreed, but Perringworth had his own problems. He was unlikely to survive the encounter with Smite.
“They’re well out of it, and lucky your abductors chose to abandon you in that garden. Do you think they drugged you?”
“Possibly, but perhaps not. I was fairly drunk for most of the party.”
“Cousin, I don’t believe you’ve been sober since June—I’ve never seen you drink so much.”
Aldridge shook his head. He’d lost both of his brothers in June. One had fled overseas, and the other had pursued the first. Rede knew that, but didn’t need to know that Aldridge blamed himself.
He put the full glass down on the corner of the desk they’d been using as a table.
“No more,” he said, decisively. “You’re right; it isn’t helping. Rede, I’ll have to talk to Smite. He has a purchaser set up for the little girl. They’ll not be safe unless I can buy him off. Can they stay here till I have it sorted?”
Rede nodded. “If I have your promise not to swive Mrs Darling under my roof,” he answered. Aldridge’s cousin always had been a tenacious sort.
Chapter Three
Aldridge returned triumphant from his trip to London.
“Smite agreed,” he told her, catching her alone in the garden, where two or three late roses clung to the last remnants of their blooms. He sat down beside her on the stone seat, taking up the centre, so she had to lean against the curved arm to keep some distance between them. “You and Sarah are free.”
The relief made her breathless. “I had enough?”
She’d given him the jewellery she’d managed to hide in the summerhouse. Paste, most of it, he’d said.
He shrugged, more an action of his head and eyebrows than his shoulders. “It doesn’t matter. Here. I used the ones with some value and brought back the rest.” The little cloth bag was still full of glittering baubles. He’d used hardly any. How...?
“You paid?” It was barely a question, and he didn’t answer, just smiled, rather smugly.
“How can we thank you?” she said. And that wasn’t a question either. She knew what he would ask in return. For five days, the Chirburys had treated her like a guest, but her holiday was clearly over.
“I’m sure we can think of something,” he replied, crowding her with his strength, but not his weight, his warmth sparking a responding heat. But his complacent assumption, after five days of being treated like a lady, sparked a contrary impulse to deny him, at least for the moment.
She slid sideways off the bench and stood, focusing on smoothing her skirts as she said, “Perhaps you would accept a few pounds a quarter until the debt is repaid?”
“I would accept a kiss on account,” he said.
“Certainly,” she replied. “Sarah would be delighted to give you a kiss. You are quite her hero.”
The moment she spoke, she wanted to take it back. She did not want another protector, but she needed one, and at least servicing this one would not be such a chore.
But no, he was grinning at her, his head cocked to one side and a light in his eyes that said she held his interest. Aha. The man enjoyed the pursuit. Well then, Rose would lead him on a right merry chase.
“If you will excuse me, my lord, I promised to help the countess with her knitting.”
She dropped a curtsey and made her escape before he formulated a response. For a few more days, perhaps, Sarah could continue to enjoy life in the upstairs nursery, with the countess’s daughter and sister, and Rose could pretend a life further up the ranks of the gentry than she could ever have achieved, even if she hadn’t been made a fallen woman before her sixteenth birthday.
Aldridge was waiting for her in the hall outside the countess’s sitting room an hour later.
“I had in mind something more personal than soulless pounds,” he said, without preamble.
“Perhaps I could bake you a cake,” she suggested.
“Certainly, what I have in mind involves tasting,” he answered smoothly. “Some sweet, decadent tasting. Licking, undoubtedly. Perhaps a little gentle biting.”
Goodness, it was hot for October.
“A single meal, my lord?”
“One... meal... would not be enough, dear Mrs Darling. Do you not agree?”
Sarah. This was not about her pleasure. This was about securing a future for Sarah. If Rose weren’t very careful, she would agree to anything he said. “An arrangement, then?”
“An arrangement to please us both.” He took her hand as he walked beside her, and placed a single chaste kiss on the tip of her index finger before sucking the whole finger into his mouth in a far-from-chaste gesture.
“Do you garden, my lord?” Her voice was unsteady.
The gambit prompted a quizzical amused quirk of the lips and one eyebrow. “Garden? No, I don’t garden.”
“I had a garden at Niddberrow. I thought the cottage was mine, you see. Perringworth promised me a house.”
“A woman should have her own house,” Aldridge agreed. “But a woman like you deserves a town-house in London, rather than a cottage in the country.”
She would prefer a cottage in the country, but the Marquis lived mostly in London.
“Lond
on is so large, though. If I lived in London, would I not need a carriage?”
“A phaeton, perhaps, that you could drive in Hyde Park during the promenading hour,” Aldridge suggested.
“Drive? Myself?” She did her best to sound shocked, not intrigued, but lost her next thought as he whisked her into a curtained alcove and proceeded to kiss her.
She thought she knew kisses. Rough and clumsy connections, rude invasions of her mouth, as the man who had purchased the right, violently mauled her breasts and buttocks. Those weren’t kisses.
This; this was a kiss. A firm, but gentle, invitation to a duet, patiently coaxing a response and then turning to a dance, a partnership of giving and taking that spun music through every vein in her body. Rose forgot where she was, almost who she was, as she melted against him, lost in a world of sensation.
Sarah. Campaign plan. She pulled back, and Aldridge let her go.
“Something on account,” Aldridge suggested.
“Perhaps.” She peeked cautiously around the curtain and then hurried away down the silent hall.
Aldridge next approached her after dinner, sitting on the other side of the love seat she’d deliberately chosen in a shadowed corner of the great parlour, out of the direct view of the earl, who was playing the pianoforte, and the countess, turning the pages of music for him.
“I love that shade of blue on you, Mrs Darling,” he said.
She blushed. Her lovers seldom bothered to compliment her, though extravagant, excruciatingly bad, poetry had been written to The Rose of Frampton by those who didn’t have her in their keeping.
“It needs something else, though,” Aldridge commented. He pulled out a tissue-wrapped package. “Not the diamonds and sapphires I thought of buying, but it is just the colour of your eyes. I had to see it on you.”
‘This’ was a shawl in patterns of blue, so fine it was small enough when rolled to fit into his jacket pocket, but large enough to wrap warmly around her shoulders. She jumped up to examine it in the mirror, and he followed, standing inches away, leaning forward to breathe on her ear as he said, “Exquisite.”
She should refuse the gift. Proper ladies did not take gifts from gentlemen. But they both knew she was not a lady, and she was well used to gifts with a price tag attached.
“Something on account?” she asked.
“Not this time. A present, given freely, with no expectation of reward. Because I admire you, lovely Rose.”
She had to remind herself of every rumour she had heard about the man. And even then, if she’d not heard him working his charm on Smite’s men, she might have unravelled, as he clearly expected. No wonder he had left such a string of broken hearts behind him.
It would be a mistake to give in too easily.
“And in return,” she told him, “I freely give you my thanks, my lord.”
She was rewarded with a moment’s stunned amazement before the amused look reappeared. “Well played, Mrs Darling,” he murmured, just before Lady Chirbury called her to the pianoforte.
She had enjoyed music above all things, back when she lived with her father. She’d not had access to a pianoforte for ten years, but when Lady Chirbury found her mooning over the instrument on the first day of her stay, she had insisted Rose start playing again.
With Aldridge watching, she kept to something simple, a country ballad, one of the earliest tunes her mother had taught her. The appreciation brightened in his eyes as she played, and later, when she said goodnight, he whispered, “You are full of surprises, Mrs Darling. The town-house will definitely have a pianoforte.”
The following morning, Aldridge caught Rose as she came out of the nursery wing, and led her into a long open gallery with a barrelled ceiling. She stopped just inside the door, staring with her mouth just a little open.
The room ran the length and breadth of the entire east wing, and was easily the size of the countess’s private garden. It was a visual cacophony. The panelled walls were painted, and so was the ornate plastered ceiling, features and details picked out in reds and blues and greens and purples and highlighted in gilt. The heavy drapes hanging in the windows along all four sides were embroidered with wonderful beasts and flowers.
Somehow, all the bold, clashing colours worked together to create a thing of beauty.
Aldridge recalled her attention. “I’m pleased by your appreciation, Mrs Darling, truly, though I’d prefer it addressed to myself.”
“I’ve never seen a room like it,” she told him. “Whatever is it for? Dancing?”
“Yes, they have dances. And they walk here when the weather is inclement, or play games. It is not used on a fine day like today.” He was approaching her with intent, scattering her wits with his masculine aura.
“I enjoy dancing,” she said, annoyed when her voice came out in a squeak. In truth, the only dancing she’d done had been at entertainments organised by two of her kinder protectors, and both of them thought ‘dancing’ simply a euphemism for upright fornication.
“You’d probably enjoy opera, too,” he replied. Trying to formulate a reply, she turned and walked the length of the gallery, stopping to exclaim over the views from the windows on the three outer walls.
He prowled after her, content, for the moment, to hold his lusts in check. If he chose to take her here, she doubted she could stop him. Or that she would. This game of tag they were playing was arousing her, too, but she could ignore that. His kindness, though—his willingness to think of ways to please her—those were fast touching the heart she had thought turned to stone a decade ago.
She cast about for something to say. “I am much out of practice on the pianoforte.”
“A music master, perhaps? For you and Sarah? It would be a good investment. I appreciate the sound of music in the evening.”
For Sarah, too? The thought put a check in her step.
Still, his assumption that she intended to surrender rankled, for all that it was true.
“You assume a great deal, my lord.” She didn’t have to work at making her voice cold, and a little hurt.
Just then, the door at the far end of the room opened, and the nursery party trooped in: Lady Daisy Redepenning hand-in-hand with Sarah, Lady Meg Haverstock, and a bevy of nursery maids, followed closely by the countess herself. Sarah had quickly become the leader of the three. At seven, she was a year older than Lady Daisy, and Lady Meg—though an adult in years—was younger still in her understanding.
The countess waved her over. “We’re going to play Blind Man’s Buff, Mrs Darling. Will you join us?”
Rose made her apologies to Aldridge and hurried to the relative safety of a game with children.
Aldridge next saw Mrs Darling when the house gathered for dinner. Her borrowed gown of powder blue intensified the colour of her eyes, echoed in the more vibrant blues of the shawl he’d given her, which she’d draped with studied negligence around her waist and over one shoulder.
Aldridge bowed correctly over Anne’s hand, and then that of his lovely quarry. “Ladies, how charming you both look,” Rede said, beating Aldridge to the compliment.
At dinner, they did not stand on ceremony, eating in the breakfast parlour around a table that allowed for easy conversation.
“They’re sending 2,000 seamen to Denmark to bring back the Danish fleet,” Rede told Anne, when she asked if the papers had any news of interest.
Anne frowned. “I cannot like our bombarding a friendly nation.”
“War makes for tough choices, Anne,” Aldridge said. “The poor Danes were in a dilemma. We were demanding they give up their ships before Napoleon took them, and Napoleon would undoubtedly have punished them had they complied.”
“And now they have lost their navy, and Copenhagen lies in ruins,” Anne said. “Surely there was another way?”
“Their fate was sealed when Napoleon decided to take their fleet,” Aldridge told her.
“Their fate was sealed when they continued to trade with France these last ten years,�
�� Mrs Darling corrected. “A neutral nation that trades with both sides? Napoleon’s intent, if true, is only an excuse.”
“Why do you say ‘if true,’ Mrs Darling?” Rede asked. “We were acting on information received from merchants and French diplomats.”
“What was it Samuel Johnson said?” she retorted. “...‘Among the calamities of war may be justly numbered the diminution of the love of truth.’”
Clever, as well as pretty. “Is trade worth going to war?” Aldridge asked, just to see what she would say.
“Trade brings power and money. Are these not the reasons nations take up arms?” she retorted.
Anne disagreed, “The reasons for one nation to attack unprovoked, certainly. But we must defend ourselves from invasion, surely?”
“Certainly, I will fight to protect what is mine,” Rede said, “even if that means we must take the battle to the enemy.”
Mrs Darling returned them to the point. “Even if it means bombing a neutral nation and taking their entire fleet?”
“A fleet that had been used to supply Napoleon’s war effort.” Aldridge’s voice grew louder at the prospect of a good argument.
But he wasn’t to get one. Mrs Darling pulled herself inward, the passion that lit her face smoothing into the calm mask she usually wore. She looked down at her plate, and then up again with a small flash of fire.
“I have never approved of the Fabian strategy,” she said, quietly. “It may win wars, but it hurts too many people.”
“Steady on, Aldridge,” Rede said. “No need to raise your voice. Can I help you to the parsnips, Mrs Darling?”
Apart from murmuring his apologies, Aldridge said little for some time. Mrs Darling was a conundrum. The Fabian strategy? Who had ever heard of a provincial whore who knew about Quintius Fabius Maximus Verrucosus, Roman general, whose war of slow attrition to cut off Hannibal’s supply lines had kept the Carthaginian from Rome and spelled his defeat.