“You may take your overly long nose and your demmed academic paper and put them both where—”
“Tut-tut, dear boy. I am your friend, if you will recall. Mayhap, if you are particularly kind to me, I might be willing to supervise the lovely Daphne’s departure—”
The heavy oak door banged back against the wall hard enough to knock over a brace of candles and send a sheaf of papers on a side table flying onto the carpet. “Daphne’s departure, is it?” Mrs. Montagu Coleraine paused halfway across the study, her voluptuous body literally quivering with outrage. Waves of mahogany hair framed her remarkably patrician face. Her rich chocolate brown eyes hinted of Italian, or perhaps Spanish, ancestry. As did the generous curves of a figure which could never be called classically English. And yet, the earl would have been the first to state, from his intimate knowledge of the lady, that there was not an ounce of fat on her. Only a year older than Miss Penelope Blayne, Daphne Coleraine had already outlived one husband and was on the catch for another. She was bright, witty, and usually good-tempered. She was also the great-granddaughter of an earl and considered herself quite eligible to be Countess of Rocksley.
“Is it true then?” the lady demanded. “You are married?”
Without looking up, the earl nodded.
“I have given you a full year of my life, and you are married?” Mrs. Coleraine declared most awfully.
Belatedly, Jason rose to his feet. “Believe me, Daphne, my dear, my wife is as angry with me as you are. It would seem I have managed things quite badly all round. I would ask you—indeed, beg you—to return to London. When I myself know what is happening, I will certainly apprise you of the facts.”
“How could you not know now?” the lady demanded.
“Believe me when I say I am nearly as confused as you. Until I was named Penelope’s Trustee, I had nearly forgotten our ancient contract—”
Mrs. Coleraine seized eagerly on his words. “Then you are merely betrothed?”
“No,” the earl sighed. “We are well and truly married.”
“And you forgot?”
Frantically, the earl glanced at Lord Brawley, who was studying the carpet in an obvious effort to hide his thorough enjoyment of the moment. If his friend chose, Jason knew, he could dine out on this tale for the next year or two.
But Gant Deveny was a true friend. He had, of course, risen upon Mrs. Coleraine’s grand entrance. He now stepped forward and slipped his arm through hers. “Come, my dear Daphne, you do not wish to remain in a house so much at sixes and sevens. Fly this place, and give the two of them room to tear each other apart. Mayhap you will win out in the end,” he added quite mendaciously. “I am certain Rock will not wish to give you up.” That sentiment, he felt certain, was not a lie. But it was not as a wife the Earl of Rocksley would keep Mrs. Daphne Coleraine. The lady could, however, take his remark any way she wished.
Fortunately, she seemed somewhat mollified, allowing Lord Brawley to guide her steps from the earl’s study. As the oak door swung closed behind them, Jason groaned, a loud, tearing growl of frustration and pent-up anger. Why, why, why had Fate seen fit to visit him with this disaster? How could one small shopping trip in a far-away land have brought them all to such a pass?
It was, he reasoned, no more his fault than it was Penelope’s. They had weathered a true crisis, in which he had shown himself a hero. It was only afterward that he had behaved badly. Filled with a young man’s longing for freedom, he had allowed himself to be manipulated by Cassandra Pemberton. And then there was the other. He had been mortified by his inadvertent display of lust for a sixteen-year-old girl under his protection as representative of her family. When the crisis was past, instead of shouldering his newfound responsibilities, he had been so overcome by guilt he had allowed Miss Pemberton’s wrath to scare him off. Indeed, he had stood by and let her sail into the sunset with his child bride and felt only a profound sense of relief. The incident in Constantinople was over, with nothing left but to sweep it under the carpet and pretend it had never happened.
Little had he expected to spend the next ten years in the arms of other women, trying to forget the wedding night he had spent in a seraglio under the watchful eyes of Sultan Selim the Third, the Grand Vizier, the Chief Black Eunuch, and Allah alone knew how many others as well. And yet, in spite of the audience, he had barely left his child bride a virgin.
Jason groaned, as the whole ghastly scene came flooding back.
Above stairs, the thoughts of the Countess of Rocksley matched those of her anguished husband. How, from such a simple, quite innocent, mistake, had things gone so wrong? They were each offspring of a noble family; each intelligent, well-educated, and accustomed to the vagaries of traveling in foreign lands. Nothing dire should have befallen them. They were English, were they not? They could travel, inviolate, anywhere, any time.
That day in the Grand Bazaar haunted her. What had she done to bring such disaster upon them all? Was it naivety, random accident, or was it simply because she had been born blond and ravishingly beautiful? A golden child in a land of dark skins, dark eyes, and dark hair?
A tear rolled down Penny’s alabaster cheek as she remembered, yet again, how it had been.
~ * ~
Chapter Four
Constantinople, August 1802
“Turn about, my dear. Slowly now!” Miss Cassandra Pemberton examined her niece with undisguised satisfaction. The child would do, do very well indeed. Only those far too high in the instep for their own good would question her decision to allow a girl of sixteen to attend an evening reception at the British Embassy. Their many years of travel had fashioned a cloak of elegance and sophistication about Miss Penelope Blayne’s slim figure that would be envied by young matrons in their twenties. Miss Pemberton sighed, a bit embarrassed to realize the emotions she was experiencing were suspiciously maternal.
Briskly, she tweaked one of the tiny white rosebuds woven into Penelope’s upswept hair. “You’ll do,” she decreed aloud, then paused, unable to resist making one last inspection. No, she was not wrong. Dear Penny was a vision of loveliness. She wore the white rosebuds nestled in her shimmering blonde hair like a proclamation of virginal innocence. Curls, carefully arranged, framed a delicate porcelain face with softly rounded cheeks and small nose. The only flaw was, perhaps, a chin that showed signs of jutting out into what, at best, might be called overconfidence; at worst, stubbornness. This minor imperfection was, however, offset by the stunning beauty of eyes the color of a clear summer sky. Wide and heavily lashed—and surely, Cassandra Pemberton thought, she might be forgiven for allowing the child to darken them so their full beauty might be seen and appreciated.
Because of the peculiar nature of foreign travel, this was not, of course, the first time Miss Pemberton had taken her niece into society. But it was the first formal evening party in the highest circles of society—albeit in a land far from home—she had deemed Penelope old enough to attend without censure. Not that Cassandra Pemberton had ever cared a fig for what others thought of her, but Penelope was another matter entirely. Miss Pemberton had plans for her niece that did not include becoming an eccentric spinster forever traveling the globe in search of the Lord alone knew what.
Therefore, she had taken great care in ordering Penelope’s dress for the evening. A white muslin of the finest weave, embroidered solely with white rosebuds (with not so much as a pale green leaf allowed to intrude upon the purity). A modest flounce at the hem, with equally modest flounces beneath each puffed sleeve. White satin ribbon, cinched less modestly beneath the bust, emphasized how rapidly the girl was becoming a woman. Penelope’s only adornment, other than the white rosebuds in her hair, was a single strand of exceptionally fine pearls, even whiter than the youthful skin on which they rested.
Breathtaking, Miss Pemberton decided. How fortunate Viscount Lyndon had arrived in Constantinople at this particular moment. Fortuitous, that’s what it was.
Miss Pemberton turned away to hide her
smile. Travel conditions being what they were, even in this new century, it was close to a miracle she had managed to time their arrival in the Levant to such a nicety. As long ago as the previous year, she had begun to make discreet queries about which young gentlemen were to make a Grand Tour to whatever parts of the world Bonaparte’s visions of conquest had left open to foreign visitors. How it rankled that they had not dared go to the Egypt. All those marvelous pyramids and other wonders of the Nile, lost to them because that monster Bonaparte had the outrageous notion he could bring Western civilization to a heathen land whose days of glory were thousands of years in the past. And yet, as reluctant as she was to admit it, when British troops helped force the French out, the country had fallen into anarchy and become no fit place for two Englishwomen of gentle birth.
Miss Pemberton sniffed, then recalled herself to the moment. She had turned Penelope out in fine style. Now she need only execute the remainder of her plan. Fortunately, her quest, conducted through voluminous correspondence, had turned up a familiar name among the young men making the Grand Tour in what was left of nations that might be termed “peaceful.” Jason Lisbourne, Viscount Lyndon, a distant connection of the Pembertons through his mother’s family. The young man’s antecedents were impeccable, his prospective wealth prodigious, and he was the perfect age, a scant five years older than Penelope, while her niece, though a mere Miss, could claim a marquess as grandfather. Surely a good enough match for a future Earl of Rocksley, particularly since Penny would, one day, have the Pemberton fortune as her dowry.
But before a proper impression could be made on Lord Lyndon, it was necessary for her niece to negotiate the formalities of an Embassy reception. “Penelope,” declared Miss Pemberton in stentorian tones, “you will recall that the ambassador is a Bruce, the seventh Earl of Elgin. I’m told he holds Robert the Bruce’s sword at Broomhall, the family seat in Dunfermline. Even though you have heard me–ah–declaim against his rumored destruction of the treasures of the Acropolis, you will grant him the full respect of his title and rank.”
“But, of course, ma’am,” Penny agreed, all innocence, “for surely he is saving them for posterity, is he not?”
Miss Pemberton sniffed. “And what of Greek posterity, pray tell? If Elgin’s men continue at the pace we observed while we were in Athens, there will be nothing left. They were supposed to be making drawings, yet they are loading up every last bit of sculpture they can carry and have begun to chip the friezes and metopes from the face of the Parthenon itself. ’Tis little better than rape. It’s a wonder only one ship has sunk beneath the weight so far.”
Since Penelope was accustomed to her aunt’s plain speaking, she merely offered an indulgent smile. “I believe we must be off, Aunt Cass. It would not do to keep Lord and Lady Elgin waiting. And I will be good, I promise. Not one single question about his marbles shall pass my lips.”
But Miss Pemberton was still standing firm, uncajoled, her stern look very much in place.
“Penelope, you will remember what I told you about Lord Elgin’s deformity. By not so much as the blink of an eye will you acknowledge that you have noticed. Do you—”
“Aunt! As if I ever would.”
“Well,” Miss Pemberton huffed, “I am sure I cannot imagine how he may look, for dread diseases of the skin are not something with which I am familiar—”
“What of the lepers we saw in Ind—”
“Enough! You will not breathe that horrid word.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Penny agreed meekly. In a moment the small contretemps was forgotten, with neither lady having the slightest inkling of the major role Thomas Bruce, Lord Elgin, would play in their lives.
Miss Penelope Blayne, eyes shining with delight over her debut into Western society in the exotic city of Constantinople, came close to floating out the door in her Aunt Cass’s wake. Her white satin slippers seemed to hover just above the mosaic floor, threatening to launch into a dance at any moment. She was going to a reception. Not a musicale, tea party, afternoon card party, lecture, or even an assembly laid on for the “young ones.” She was off to a genuine evening affair at the residence of the Minister Plenipotentiary of His Britannic Majesty to the Sublime Porte of Selim the Third, Sultan of Turkey.
All was right with the world of Miss Penelope Blayne. There was no frisson of warning, not the slightest hint of a wrinkle in her cocoon of confidant security. For how could Penny Blayne, a young bud formed in the gentle confines of Kent, England, possibly know she was within days of the end of her innocence?
Jason Lisbourne, Viscount Lyndon, put his quizzing glass to one cobalt blue eye and regarded Lord Elgin’s guests with all the scornful ennui of a young man of one and twenty to a courtyard full of people, most of whom seemed to be twenty or more years his senior. One of the great attractions of his journey to the once great capital of the Byzantine Empire was the tales he had heard of its exotically lovely women. But so far his youthful eagerness had not been rewarded. He might have seen exotic women in the days of ancient Byzantium, for when the Emperor Constantine moved the capital of the Roman Empire to a city on the Bosphorus—the body of water that divided West from East—he had taken Roman customs with him. But for four centuries now the Ottomans had ruled Constantinople, and Viscount Lyndon found the women swathed from head to toe, all but their huge dark eyes hidden behind curtains of cotton, linen, or fine silk.
There were places he could go to find women, his guides had been quick to reveal, but so far he had not done so. Not that he was unaccustomed to paying for female favors, but somehow a good English tavern wench, or a London demi-rep seemed right and proper. A slave girl in a Levantine brothel did not. He supposed London’s light ladies were as close to slaves as made no difference . . . yet he found himself shying away from the local commodities so loudly touted by his guides.
Truly, he had not thought himself so fastidious. What man would not wish to see what was beneath the veil? Certainly, his two traveling companions had been openly eager to embrace the underbelly of Ottoman culture. Arrangements had, in fact, been made. And Jason knew his resolve was weakening. Yet it was possible he might find a rude surprise beneath the veil. Or problems worse than ugliness. The kind that lingered . . . and drove a man mad before they killed. Or caused their noses to disintegrate, as had happened with his Scottish host.
With a curl of his lip, Viscount Lyndon dropped his quizzing glass. In no hurry to join the milling throng in the courtyard, he leaned against one of the marble pillars supporting the roof of the loggia on which he was standing and continued to examine the scene before him. The foreign residents of Constantinople, unlike their counterparts in England, did not seem to fear the night air. He had to grant there was a certain attraction to an outdoor party, rather like an evening at Vauxhall. The fountains cooled, as well as soothed—some a mere gurgle, others shooting up into the early evening air well above the tallest visitors’ heads. And the air was perfumed by flowers, many of which Jason could not name. Marble benches, scattered about in places where one might best view either flowing water or garden flowers, invited intimate conversation.
He would have to leave his refuge soon, get off the demmed pillar and plunge into the crowd, doing his duty as a titled Englishman greeting a host of foreign dignitaries—most of them younger sons—and their plump wives, spotted sons, and ugly daughters. He must smile and shake hands with wealthy merchants and their even more unappealing offspring. Society in Constantinople was far more eclectic than the one to which he was accustomed. But had his father not sent him on this Grand Tour to broaden his education, gain polish in dealing with every type of situation? He must—
Jason straightened off the pillar. Quizzing glass forgotten, he stared at the vision of loveliness who had just stepped out onto the loggia, not twenty feet away. Exquisite. The embodiment of the dream every man keeps tucked away in his heart. Hair so pale it might have been made of moonlight. A face to make the angels weep. A gown of virginal simplicity, clinging to the
petite but promising figure of budding youth. Stunned, Viscount Lyndon failed to note he was acquainted with the young lady’s chaperone, even when the two women turned and walked straight toward him.
The older woman was tall and imposing, an Amazon of a female. Although impeccably dressed in a long column of amber silk, with matching turban, in which gemstones winked in a style a pasha might have envied, her stride was that of a man, strong and confidant. Spine straight, shoulders back, she looked more as if she were marching in a military parade than negotiating a marble loggia overlooking Lord Elgin’s courtyard. She stopped not three feet from his pillar and looked him up and down. “Lyndon?” she inquired, her sharp gray eyes peering intently up from only slightly lower than his own.
In response to his slight bow of affirmation, she flashed a triumphant smile. “I am Cassandra Pemberton. You were naught but a scrubby schoolboy when last we met—Felicity Warrington’s wedding, it was. My mother was a Warrington, as was yours. You would scarce remember my dear niece, Penelope, however,” she added, turning toward the beauty who hovered like a small moon in the wake of Cassandra Pemberton’s sun. “My lord, may I present Miss Penelope Blayne. Penelope, Jason Lisbourne, Viscount Lyndon. Although you are not related by blood, my dear, you are connected to him by marriage.”
As the very young lady sank into a deep, and perfect, curtsey, Jason feasted his eyes, even as his heart plummeted to his toes. She was a child, a veritable child. Only a well-known eccentric, such as Cassandra Pemberton, would commit the social faux pas of bringing a schoolgirl to such a reception. For although he had not recognized her face from that long-ago wedding, Miss Pemberton’s name was legion. Everyone had heard of her unladylike traipsing around the world, dragging her poor niece after her. Into every momentary pause in the ton’s scandals Cassandra Pemberton’s name would fall. There was always some shocking new story to titillate jaded palates. And, if not, nothing lively minds could invent would be too outlandish to be believed of the peripatetic spinster from Kent.
The Harem Bride Page 4