Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor
Page 10
“Your lady, Sir, is quite young…” Miss Neville began.
John interrupted, “The baroness is the same age as Lady Yardley, as well as Lady Lexford. Neither woman ignores her husband nor does either regard her position as unbearable.”
Miss Neville’s gaze narrowed. “Surely you knew of Lady Swenton’s disposition before you thought to marry her.”
John confessed, “Ours was a short acquaintance under difficult circumstances.” Their eyes locked for a moment as he probed the depths of Miss Neville’s reason. For a few brief seconds, his mind repeated the phrase, “What if?”
“It is a chasm of your own making, Baron, and there will be no easy means to a resolution. Permit your wife her way, but not indefinitely. Before you depart for York, speak to your lady. Explain to her how long you mean to be away and what you expect of her upon your return. Your absence will provide Lady Swenton time to settle upon what is her duty. Even though I find the duchess’s obsessive interest in fashion tedious, Thornhill’s bride does not deny her responsibilities to her husband. Lady Swenton could learn much from her eldest sister.”
John gave a faint grimace. “Your suggestion holds merit,” he said grudgingly. “I possess no choice but to bolster my relationship with the baroness,” he said with unconscious disappointment.
“Yes. You should do so before the stables bring your horse around.” She stepped away as if to permit him to pass before her, but in the semi-darkness, Miss Neville’s foot caught the edge of the carpet, and she stumbled backward.
Instinctively, John’s hands shot out to catch her by the shoulders, jerking the lady into his embrace. She landed solidly against his chest while John locked his hands behind her. Miss Neville’s soft curves rested against the hard planes of his body. A flare of desire shot through his veins as he inhaled her scent deep into his lungs. “Are you injured?” he whispered huskily into her ear.
The lady pushed against his chest to extricate herself from his grasp. “I am well, Lord Swenton. My gratitude for your quick response.” Reluctantly, John released her. “I should see to the baroness’s breakfast.” Her voice was as shaky as his.
It took several elongated seconds before his scattered thoughts could return to some sort of order. “If you feel I should return sooner than I anticipate, you will write to me at Marwood Manor.” John slipped two guineas into her hand.
“Of course, Sir.” Miss Neville deposited the coins into the pocket of her apron. “How long do you expect to be absent?”
He thought it odd this woman had thought to ask the questions his wife had not. “Depending on the weather, it would be three, maybe four days, to my estate. I must oversee Lady Fiona’s return, and I imagine my desk is stacked high with correspondence regarding estate business. It will be at least a fortnight, more likely a month before I can return. It is spring planting, and my cottagers will seek my guidance.”
“Then I shall include you in my prayers, Lord Swenton. Your safe come back will be welcomed heartily.”
John doubted Satiné would welcome his presence, but after speaking to Miss Neville, he was more determined to teach his young wife to tolerate his presence in her life. “Your kindness knows no bottom, Miss Neville. Farewell.” He bowed before making a quick exit. He thought upon his sad state: he held responsibilities and obligations to a woman, whose worth John had begun to question.
*
Isolde watched him cross the foyer to mount the stairs leading to the baroness’s suite. Lord Swenton was the most compelling man she had ever known. Licorice black hair. Vivid dark eyes. Intense masculinity. Ruggedly fit and muscular. Solidly built, with an enticing smile shared all too rarely. She shook her head to order her incoherent thoughts. “Not for you,” she whispered. “Lord Swenton is a married man.”
The memory of last evening’s encounter rose quickly to her mind. She had returned to Thorn Hall with the duke and duchess to be greeted by His Grace’s butler, with the information of a heated disagreement in progress in the Swentons’ quarters.
Isolde and the duke had rushed to the adjoining rooms before His Grace signaling for Isolde to enter first. Surprisingly, the baroness’s room was empty, but not so the baron’s.
Cautiously, Isolde had crept through the baroness’s sitting room to the still open doorway. Inside the baron’s guest bedroom, Lord Swenton stood stone faced, staring out the open window upon the night’s darkness. He did not turn his head or flinch a muscle, and Isolde had known awe to look upon a man with such self-control. While the baron remained motionless, his wife was anything but. Satiné Swenton hurled a variety of items at her husband’s back and profile. She struck out at him repeatedly and called the baron every vile name possible.
“You think you own me, but I am not a slave, Sir!” Lady Satiné struck the baron’s shoulder with the fire iron. The baron by design caught the weapon and tossed it out the open window, but he did not look upon his wife. From the light’s reflection in the upper glass, Isolde recognized the pain upon Lord Swenton’s countenance. It was not the anguish of the baroness’s attack, but rather from something much deeper.
“You are nothing to me, Johnathan Swenton! I rue the day I agreed to your proposal.”
With that pronouncement, Isolde had swept into the room to catch the baroness about the waist, purposely pining the girl’s arms to her side. “Come, Lady Swenton,” she had coaxed. “You shall know a sick headache. Surely, it is best to leave this disagreement until the light of day.” She directed the baroness’s steps toward the woman’s quarters.
Exhausted from her fit of ill use, the baroness had sagged heavily against Isolde’s side, and the woman no longer spouted contemptible vituperations. Isolde whispered soft encouragements; yet, at the door, she turned to look once more upon the baron. He remained silent, but now he stared in her direction; their eyes had met in understanding. Blood trickled down his cheek from a small cut at his temple. A wounded animal licking his wounds, she thought. He bowed to her retreating form, and Isolde had known regret at not being permitted to encircle him in her arms and to drive away the anguish buried deep in his soul.
*
John entered her quarters through their adjoining sitting rooms to discover his wife curled into a tight ball upon the well-stuffed mattress. After her caustic remarks last evening, he was less than certain he wished to wake her and to face his wife’s continued contempt. It would be easier on his bruised ego simply to mount his waiting horse and ride north; yet, he had promised Miss Neville he would attempt a reconciliation. Therefore, he bent beside the bed to shake her shoulder. “Satiné. Satiné. Awake, my Dear.”
His wife jerked away from his touch to scramble to her knees. She clutched at the counterpane to cover herself. Like a bird with a broken wing, he thought.
“I mean you no harm, Satiné,” he said huskily. “I came only to speak my farewells.”
“Farewells?” A look of heightened anticipation filled her eyes.
“Not forever.” John kept the bitterness from his tone. “I have spoken to Thornhill, and the duke has begged me to leave you in his care while I tend to Lady Fiona’s remains. Thornhill assures me your presence in Kent will provide the duchess great pleasure.”
His wife trembled. “You will permit me to remain at Thorn Hall?”
“I am not a beast, Satiné,” he said firmly. “You may remain for an extended time with the duchess, but I will return for you in a few weeks. In my absence, I mean for you to settle your mind to performing as my baroness. We are bound, and we cannot permit former acrimony to destroy what happiness we might achieve. Are you willing to permit us a fresh beginning?”
“If it is your wish, my Lord,” she repeated as if in rote learning.
John’s ire rose quickly, too fast for him to control it completely. “Bloody hell, Satiné. I do not wish you to speak of servitude, nor do I wish to encounter the shrew of last evening. Could we not find a middle?” He jammed his fingers into his hair in frustration.
She flinche
d again as if he had struck her, and John knew instant regret. “I shall endeavor to please you, my Lord.”
“John,” he corrected.
“Of course,” she whispered. “Thank you, John, for your kindness. It is more than I deserve.”
“Permit me to show kindness often. We began as friends. Surely, we can return to those days when we enjoyed each other’s company,” he encouraged.
“It would be superior to our recent confrontations,” she agreed.
John extended his hand to where she huddled upon the bed. “Come. Wish me a safe journey.” Satiné hesitated before placing her fingertips into his open palm; therefore, John cautiously closed his fingers about hers. “May I beg a kiss to steady me while I am away?”
With a weak nod of agreement, she moved slowly into his embrace. She was on her knees at the bed’s edge, which placed her along his front. It was the first expression of intimacy Satiné had ever accepted from him. In his dreams, this was a heart-stopping moment. John admitted he enjoyed the heat of her body as it rested against his, but she was so fragile he thought to control his passion: he could easily snap her bones with a too tight grasp. Slowly, he lowered his head to kiss her tenderly. How would it be to know this woman intimately? Not for the first time, he did not think the possibility would be satisfying.
After a few brief moments, she tentatively pulled away, and John permitted Satiné’s withdrawal. Her fingers touched the cut at the corner of his eye. He wished to turn his head and kiss her open palm, but he resisted the urge for fear his wife might realize their close proximity. “Did I…?” she began.
“Yes.” He presented her a wry grin. “With my mother’s ring. Quite ironic, is it not?”
“I should not have…” Satiné protested.
John interrupted, “No more apologies. We begin again from this moment forward.”
*
From the privacy of a half drawn-drape, Isolde had watched the baron’s departure. The tension in his shoulders had eased; yet, it had not completely dissipated, and Isolde wondered if he had resolved his marital situation. Later, when she had carried a tray to Lady Satiné’s room, the baroness had been strangely silent. Her mistress’s less than forthcoming secrecy had been quite unsettling.
Isolde looked up from the book she was pretending to read to note Thornhill’s butler enter the drawing room with a silver salver. The duchess reached for the card, read it, and then handed it to her sister. Lady Satiné smiled knowingly and shook her head in silent agreement. “Send Lord Morse in,” the duchess instructed aristocratically.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
In less than a minute, the sound of boots on the marbled floor announced Lord Morse’s entrance. From her seat along the room’s fringe, Isolde rose to acknowledge the young lord’s presence. Customarily, His Lordship did not see her; similar to a governess, a lady’s companion remained invisible in the eyes of many with titles. Generally, Isolde preferred it that way. Her employment was acceptable: and although she often assumed the duties of Lady Satiné’s maid, she did so from a desire to be useful rather than as part of her duties. However, today she would have relished the opportunity to claim a more powerful position to be close enough to Lord Morse to judge for herself the sincerity of His Lordship’s intentions.
“Lord Morse.” The duchess extended her hand to the gentleman, and Morse bowed dutifully over it.
“Your Grace.” He placed an air kiss on the back of the duchess’s hand. Then he turned an assessing gaze upon the baroness. “Lady Swenton.” A proper bow followed, and Isolde looked on with disgust as Lady Satiné offered her hand. This time, the gentleman’s lips lingered seductively upon her mistress’s skin.
“Please have a seat, Lord Morse.” The duchess gestured to a nearby chair. “Shall I send for tea?”
The gentleman brushed off her suggestion with a flick of his wrist. “I thank you, Duchess, but I mean to be on the road to London in the next quarter hour. I simply called to acknowledge your and the baroness’s superior company last evening. I told Sir Carter I have rarely experienced a more delightful evening.” Isolde thought the man’s praise a bold falsehood, but neither the duchess nor the baroness appeared to mind. “I am hoping two such lovely ladies plan to share part of the Season. Thornhill cannot be so cruel as to hide you both away from Society. We are sorely starved for beauty and intelligence in London.”
The duchess did not appear as flattered as was her sister. “The duke has not indicated whether he has business in Town,” she said judiciously.
“Would it do me well to take my plea to Thornhill’s door?”
The duchess tutted. “That action shall not be necessary. Thornhill is a man not easily persuaded, Sir. The duke chooses his own way.”
Lord Morse frowned. “I see. Then I will make my withdrawal.” He rose, and they did also. Yet, before he could exit, a light tap at the door brought a maid to her mistress’s drawing room.
“Pardon, Your Grace. Young Master Edward is awake. You requested to be informed immediately upon his being roused.”
The duchess blushed. “I fear, Lord Morse, I am a doting mother. If you will excuse me for a moment, I will give the boy’s nurse instructions for his care.”
Lord Morse bowed perfectly. “Certainly, Your Grace. Of all men of your acquaintance, I understand well the importance of a duke’s heirs in a household.”
With a regal nod of her head, the duchess said, “I shan’t be long. Speak your farewells to the baroness.”
Her sister had been no more from the room a few seconds when Lady Swenton asked, “How did you know I remained at Thorn Hall? Lord Swenton made it quite clear we were to depart for York today.” Isolde did not approve of the intimate manner in which Lady Swenton spoke to Morse, but she held her tongue and listened carefully. Isolde prayed she would not be given reason to report the baroness’s actions to Lord Swenton.
“Quite true,” Morse said with a ready smile. “Yet, when Lord Swenton called upon the baronet this morning, you were not strapped to the baron’s saddle.” His gaze slid suggestively over Lady Satiné’s décolletage.
As expected, the baroness’s chin notched a bit higher. Isolde had seen the girl dare more than one merchant not to extend her credit. Her mistress was a bold one, and the baron would soon learn his estimation of the former Miss Aldridge in error. “And so you thought to assume advantage of the baron’s absence?”
Isolde admired the man’s conceit: He realized his position provided him great latitude with women. “If you hold no desire to continue our acquaintance, Baroness, make no effort to convince your sister to travel to London. If you wish my attentions…”
The baroness turned her head at the sound of approaching footsteps. “I understand your implications, my Lord. Thank you for your call. I wish you a safe journey.”
As Lord Morse made to exit, the entrance of Thornhill and Sir Carter brought the man to an awkward halt. Baron Swenton’s associates appeared aghast at discovering Morse at Thorn Hall. After a brief exchange of bows, Sir Carter said suspiciously, “I thought you had set a course for the Capital.”
Before the others could respond, Thornhill demanded, “Where is my duchess?”
Isolde said softly, “Tending to Master Edward, Your Grace.”
Lord Morse shot a pleading glance to where the baroness remained, and she took the hint. Lady Swenton said boldly, “The baron and I made such a speedy departure last evening, Lord Morse thought I had taken ill.”
Thornhill’s eyes narrowed. “Lord Morse is most gracious.” He gave his sister in marriage a disapproving look. “As you can see, Lady Swenton is quite well.” Evidently, the duke and the baronet were as shocked as Isolde at viewing Lord Morse and Lady Satiné together. “As my wife has unexpectedly rushed off to tend to my heir, permit me to see you out, Morse. Thorn Hall’s passageways can be a bit confusing until one becomes familiar with them.” Isolde recognized the duke’s ruse: Thornhill meant to remove Lord Morse from Lady Satiné’s company.
“Is something amiss?” The duchess appeared behind the men. She held the hand of a petite girl, who had the distinct look of one from the Indian basin.
Thornhill smiled at his wife. “No, my Dear. I will escort Morse upon his way and then return to you. Sir Carter has come to speak to Miss Neville.”
“Papa?” the child tugged on the duke’s coattail. “May Mrs. Carruthers and I call at Huntingborne? I have another drawing for Simon.”
Thornhill caressed the child’s cheek. “You know I can refuse you nothing, but perhaps you should ask your Uncle Carter’s permission. It is his coin you spend to post the letter to Master Simon.”
She giggled as she slid her hand into the baronet’s. “Uncle Carter is easier to persuade than you, Papa.”
The baronet laughed easily. “Am I now? We will see if you speak the truth.” He knelt before the girl. “Ask me you favor.”
“May I present Lady Lowery a drawing for Simon?” she asked prettily.
Sir Carter winked at Thornhill. “I think not,” he said lightheartedly.
Yet, the girl had learned her lessons well. Instantly, she burst into tears. Fake ones, Isolde thought. “Oh, Darling,” the baronet cooed, as he caught the girl to him. “Uncle Carter meant only to tease you. Please do not cry, Sonali. Certainly you may send Simon as many drawings as you wish.”
“Truly?” the child said on a well-rehearsed sob.
“Truly, my Girl.” Sir Carter caressed Sonali Fowler’s dark tresses.
“Thank you,” she announced fully recovered. “You are the best of my uncles.”
Thornhill warned, “Beware, Lowery. Your ‘darling Girl’ spoke those words to the baron only yesterday. I fear our Sonali is learning the ways of charming coquettes.”
Sir Carter eyed the girl’s innocent countenance. “Do not pretend to know the way of men, Lady Sonali, or you may know the wrath of all your uncles,” he chastised mildly.