by Jude Knight
He returned for dinner that night, and it became the pattern for their days: an outing in the afternoon, dinner in the evening, and afterwards, cards, chess, or reading together. And they talked. Lord Overton had read many of the same books she enjoyed. He agreed with her views on enclosure. She did not share his confidence in the military genius of General Wellesley, but acknowledged that his own background as an army officer gave him the edge in judging such a thing.
She asked about his estate, and about his daughters, who would be her daughters, too. Perhaps. If she dared...
And at night in her bed, she wondered whether his shoulders were as broad, his hips as slender, as they looked.
Surprised to discover that Mrs Winstanley and Sarah had never been to the Royal Menagerie at the Tower, Hugh arranged a visit. It was not a success. Though others visiting the Royal beasts seemed not to care they were kept in small dirty cages, both mother and child grew quieter and quieter. When a boy poked a stick through the bars of a cage to rouse a lethargic leopard, Sarah turned swimming, pleading eyes to Hugh.
“Here. Leave the animal alone,” Hugh told the boy, who made a rude gesture but desisted.
Hugh moved his ladies on, and asked the keeper for directions to the room where the monkeys were kept.
“Had to be removed, didn’t they,” the keeper told him. “Attacked a boy. Mauled him something awful.”
“Probably,” Becky suggested tartly, as they left the Tower, “because the boy attacked the poor monkeys.”
Hugh consoled them with ices at Gunter’s, including one for the silent governess who played propriety. Uncle Lord Aldridge took her to Gunter’s, Sarah confided, but he’d never taken them to the park, or to the Tower.
“You didn’t like the Tower, Sarah,” he pointed out.
“No,” she agreed. “But I liked that you took me. Some of the other girls have been.”
He delivered them home, wondering about the little girl’s life. He forgot for hours at a time that Mrs Winstanley was a kept woman. He only knew that he wanted her.
He was light-headed in her presence, his blood being otherwise occupied, and he grew adept at keeping furniture, or his silk hat, or his folded overcoat in a strategic position to avoid letting her know what an advantage she had. When he was alone in one of Aldridge’s spare bedchambers at night, he let the memory of her fill his senses, and imagined the touch and the taste of her. Her skin was pale, protected from the sun, but it would be paler yet on her breasts and her thighs. Pale, and tender, and soft.
The silk of her hair would cling to his fingers as he spread it out on his pillow. Yes, and while he was paying due worship to her lovely breasts, he would find the silk of her other hair, too, and what it guarded. He wanted to taste the sweet honey of her desire more than he wanted to breathe, to bring her to glorious completion, to find his balance again between her warm thighs.
The fantasy was unwise. It didn’t make the days easier to bear, the momentary satisfaction giving way to a profound hollow only she could fill. Was she using some ancient concubine’s art to ensnare with lust?
No.
He must forget that she’d been Aldridge’s kept woman or he wouldn’t be able to go through with it. And marrying Mrs Winstanley had become his most ardent desire.
When Lord Overton asked if she would call him by his first name, he was sitting on her parlour carpet, eating a picnic lunch, their expedition to the park being aborted because of rain.
He leant towards her, his eyes warm but his smile a little uncertain.
“It not being consistent with a lord’s dignity to feed pastries to dolls on the carpet, we had better dispense with all this ‘my lord’ business, do you not think? Will you call me Hugh, Mrs Winstanley?”
She studied her hands, fiddling with a ribbon on her gown. “If you will call me Becky, Hugh.”
Later, when she and Sarah had seen Hugh out the door, Sarah said, “May I ask you a question, Mama?”
“Of course, darling.”
“Is Lord Overton going to be my new uncle? Doesn’t Uncle Lord Aldridge love us anymore?”
This was a conversation for the parlour. Becky held out her hand and led Sarah into the room, closing the door firmly behind them.
“Come and sit with me, darling.”
How to explain? With Sarah cuddled against her side on the couch, she started with Sarah’s question about Aldridge.
“Sarah, Lord Aldridge hasn’t stopped loving us.” Did Aldridge love her? It didn’t matter. Aldridge did love Sarah, she was sure of that, lavishing on the little girl the affection he could not give his own lost children. “You will always be special to him. But we cannot stay with him forever. I told you we would be moving to the country one day.”
“Then why do we need another uncle?” Sarah asked. “I thought it was going to be just you and me.”
“Lord Overton would not be your uncle, my darling. But would you not like him for a papa?”
Sarah frowned, but did not reply.
“You like Lord Overton, do you not? Would you mind very much if our house in the country were his house? If I married Lord Overton?”
Sarah pulled away far enough to look up. Tears drowned her eyes and dripped down her cheeks. “Married, Mama? Forever?”
Not if Sarah were against it. Becky swallowed against a huge lump in her throat. Until she faced giving him up, she had not realised her growing desire for Lord Overton and this marriage.
She started to shake her head, but Sarah threw herself against Becky’s shoulder, speaking around great hiccupping sobs. “Oh, Mama, that would be wonderful. He will never, never leave us, will he, Mama? If he marries us, he will stay forever? No more uncles?”
“No more uncles, my dearest. Forever.” Becky was crying too. “No more uncles.”
That evening was one week to the day since Aldridge first suggested the marriage to Becky. She was waiting in the parlour when Hugh arrived for dinner. “I think we can make a bargain,” she told him. “If you still wish it, Hugh.”
Chapter Fourteen
Aldridge was delighted. He suggested a special licence, and an encounter as soon as possible with the woman from Astley’s.
“Have you spoken with your cousin and your other relatives about supporting Becky while we run the charade?” Hugh asked.
“Your mother might,” Becky offered.
“The Duchess of Haverford?” Hugh asked, cautiously, as if Aldridge had a choice of mothers.
“She said she would support me to a new life when my contract with Aldridge was over.”
Aldridge’s eyebrows shot up. “Mama said that?”
“She...” Becky blushed. “She might not approve of me marrying a baron. She certainly warned me not to attempt to marry you. But she did say she would help me and Sarah when we were ready.”
“If she accepts you as Baroness Overton, the rest of Society will follow her lead.” Aldridge had shaken off the surprise and was considering the agreement between his mother and his mistress with his usual equanimity. Hugh was still wondering how the two had met.
“I think we should call on her,” Aldridge continued. “And Rede is in town, too. We can ask Anne. She liked you, Becky. I’m sure she’ll help. And my half-brother’s wife, Prue. Rede’s cousin, Susan. My own cousins. Yes, we’ll do very nicely.”
Hugh shook his head. “That’s a lot of people to share our secret.”
“I don’t intend to tell them our secret, Overton. Mama knows, and Anne. And Prue, probably, because it’s the sort of thing she knows. But they can all be trusted. All I need to tell the others is that my friend Hugh is marrying a widow who has not been much in society, and I’d appreciate their support.”
Becky insisted they talk to the key players before the planned encounter on Rotten Row between the Merry Marquis, the baron, and their respective ladies. Hugh could see the point.
“It won’t take long, will it?” he said.
His lands and his daughters needed him. And he needed
his new bride. Love was no more part of this second marriage than in his first—but at least he liked Becky, and she seemed to like him. And desire... he had plenty of that! They would deal well together, and he was keen to get started.
While Aldridge visited his Mama to explain what they wanted, Hugh went cap, and purse, in hand to Doctor’s Commons to arrange a special licence.
It took longer than he’d hoped, and a lucky encounter with a friend from university, to be admitted to the Archbishop’s presence, but two days later, he had his licence. It was in his pocket, and Becky at his side, when they waited on Her Grace, summoned by a scented note delivered by the hand of a liveried footman.
Hugh had been in the heir’s wing many times, and at Haverford, the family seat, when he was a boy. He had never entered Haverford House by the main door. Designed to impress, the approach sat back from the road, admittance through a gatekeeper. They were paraded through the paved courtyard by another liveried servant to the stairs between pillars that stretched three stories to the pediment above.
Inside, the ducal glory continued; a marbled entrance chamber the height of the house that would make a ballroom in any lesser mansion, with majestic flights of stairs rising on either side and curving to meet, only to split again in a symphony of wood and stone. Grenford ancestors were everywhere, twice as large as life, painted on canvas and moulded from stone, cold eyes examining petitioners and finding them all unworthy.
Aldridge met them in the entrance chamber, and led them up the first flight of stairs and down a sumptuously carpeted hall that was elegantly papered above richly carved panels. Four men could have walked arm-in-arm down the middle, never touching the furniture and art lining both walls, between highly-polished doors.
Busts on marble pedestals alternated with delicate gilded tables and seats upholstered in the Haverford green, scarlet and gold, many embroidered with the unicorn and phoenix from the Haverford coat of arms. The art in gilded frames that hung both walls showed more Grenford ancestors, interspersed with favourite animals, scenes from the Bible, and retellings of Greek legends. The ornately painted ceiling boasted flowers, leaves, and decorative swirls, the many colours highlighted in gilding.
Here and there, an open door gave them a view into one large chamber after another, each room richer than the last. At intervals, curtained arches led to more halls, more stairs.
Hugh was openly gawping, and Becky drew closer to him, as if for protection.
“A bit over the top, don’t you think?” he whispered to her, and was rewarded with a quick, nervous, smile.
The duchess received them in a sitting room that, if rich and elegant, was at least more human in scale.
She offered a cheek to Aldridge for a kiss, and a hand to Hugh. Becky held back.
“Come, my dear,” she coaxed. “Mrs Winstanley, is it not? Soon to be Baroness Overton. You shall kiss me, my dear, and I shall be godmother to your child, since I cannot claim the closer title.”
Hugh relaxed, then. Her Grace would champion them for her grandchild’s sake. He took the offered chair, and Aldridge leant against the mantelpiece. The duchess ignored them both to focus on Becky.
She insisted on Becky sitting beside her.
“Are you keeping well, my dear? Are you eating?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Becky’s voice was so quiet Hugh had to lean forward to hear.
“You must eat several times a day, dear. More as the baby takes up more room...” she trailed off as Becky blushed scarlet. “And when do you expect the little one to arrive?”
“At Yuletide, Ma’am. Or perhaps early January.”
“What of sleep, Mrs Winstanley? Are you able to rest in the afternoons?” She turned to Hugh. “An afternoon rest is most efficacious for women who are increasing, Lord Overton. I will expect you to keep her in bed in the afternoon.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Hugh replied, blushing in his turn.
The Duchess silenced her sniggering son with a raised eyebrow. “I suppose you have a plan, Aldridge, for convincing the ton that Mrs Winstanley and Lady Overton are two different people?”
Aldridge explained about the woman from Astley’s.
“Will she keep her silence if the gossip rags guess she had a part in it? They pay, I am told. And is she willing to continue playing the part?”
“We intend a tragic accident, Mama. The horse will bolt, The Rose of Frampton will fall, and the Marquis of Aldridge will attend her funeral and wear a black armband for a full year.”
Aldridge’s mother pursed her lips. “Six months for a mistress, I think, my love. One would not wish to be thought excessive. And promise the girl a yearly payment if she is silent.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” Hugh ventured, “but might that not encourage her to seek an increase?”
“Blackmail, you mean?” Her Grace raised an elegant eyebrow. “Aldridge, you will make it clear that any attempt to seek an increase will be met with... considerable ducal displeasure. My godchild’s mother is not to be inconvenienced or embarrassed.”
She patted Becky’s hand. “Now, my dear, what do you have to wear for your wedding? And may I ask... would you allow me to stand witness, Mrs Winstanley? I would be so delighted.”
After that, things moved with blinding speed, although not as fast as the Duchess first suggested. Becky demurred at marrying immediately, without Sarah present, so Aldridge was dispatched to collect her. Becky was swept off into the Duchess’s chambers, and Hugh was sent to the heir’s wing, where Aldridge’s valet waited to dress him for his wedding.
Two hours later, Hugh joined a cleric and a resplendent Aldridge in the Haverford House Chapel. Hugh had chosen formal court dress and had been pleased with his coat of cream silk velvet, grey breeches and a dark blue waistcoat, richly embroidered in powder blue and silver. Until he stood next to Aldridge.
Aldridge had also found time to change into formal attire. His coat and breeches—of a midnight-blue silk velvet, with a deep band of embroidery on each side and on the cuffs—fitted him as if sewn to his broad shoulders and muscular thighs. Snow-white lace foamed at his neck and cuffs, matching his pure white stockings with silver clocking. His waistcoat put Hugh’s in the shade, near-painted in a riotous multi-colour pattern on a salmon pink ground to match the roses in the coat’s embroidery.
Hugh glared at the roses, suspecting that particular sartorial choice was another poke at him. He would ignore it. In a very short time, Becky would be Lady Overton, and within a week, the whole of London would know the Rose of Frampton was dead and gone.
A few minutes of nervous waiting, and the Duchess arrived, hand in hand with Sarah. Sarah’s stately glide showed her consciousness of her cream dress flounced in lace, the sash exactly the shade of her eyes, her dark curls confined by a ribbon the same colour.
“You look beautiful, Sarah,” Hugh told her, and Aldridge crouched down to rub his finger across her nose. “Beautiful,” he agreed. “And so grown up, Princess.”
Sarah beamed, but Hugh barely noticed. Becky was standing at the other end of the short aisle. The Duchess had dressed her in silver lace over a pale peach silk, and she was breath-taking. The dress was full from the high waist, but hugged the lower curves of her breasts. Above, a breath of silk trimmed the bodice in a narrow flounce that continued across both shoulders, a frame for the sweet slope of her creamy chest and throat.
He dragged his eyes up the slope to her face. Through the lace veil that covered her face, he met her eyes, pale and serious. “Soon be done,” he whispered, smiling just for her. She placed her hands in his, and managed a shaky smile in return.
With blinding speed, the wedding was over. Becky was Baroness Overton, his wedded wife in the eyes of God, his to have and to hold, from this day forward, ‘till death us do part’.
“I have ordered a light collation,” the Duchess told the newly-wed couple, after they signed the register and thanked the cleric.
Becky looked around. “Where is Sarah?”
>
“Aldridge has her. They have gone ahead,” said Her Grace.
Hugh and Becky found out why moments later, when they entered the parlour, to be showered with rice and seeds from behind the door. A giggling Sarah was sitting high on Aldridge’s shoulder.
Hugh reached out for her. “Will you give your new papa a kiss, Sarah?” he asked. She allowed herself to be lifted down, and gave him a shy peck on the cheek, but retreated to her mother’s side as soon as he set her on her feet.
Aldridge bowed as though to the queen herself. “Lady Overton,” he said, which was entirely correct, though the twinkle in his eye didn’t escape Hugh’s notice. Aldridge knew full well, Hugh would punch him if he tried to kiss the bride.
Aldridge soon had Sarah giggling again, tempting her with bites from the many selections the Duchess thought suitable for a light snack after a wedding, and describing the delights that awaited her at Lord and Lady Chirbury’s house, where she would spend the night with Lady Daisy. Her excitement at the prospect overcame whatever concerns she had about Hugh’s entry into her life.
“Will you and Becky stay in the heir’s wing tonight?” Aldridge asked Hugh.
Never, Hugh wanted to shout. Spend his first night with his new wife in the Haverford House heir’s wing? Where he’d bedded more women than he wanted to remember, and Aldridge had swived an entire army? They would go to the apartment. Or a hotel.
But the duchess spoke before he could answer.
“I have arranged guest chambers for the Overtons, Aldridge, and tomorrow they will return to the apartment Lady Overton shares with her daughter.”
His daughter, too, now. Becky was sitting with Sarah, showing her the ring with which he’d sealed his promises. He’d scoured London to find one with a stone that matched Becky’s eyes, a blue Irish topaz, set with pearls, in a gold setting of hearts and doves.