Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor

by Regina Jeffers

  Within a heartbeat, the baron had circled the bed and had caught her to him. He drove Isolde backward until her spine was pressed against the interior door and his hard body plastered her front. “Forgive me,” he whispered roughly against her temple. “I never meant to harm you. Please Isolde, I have acted a fool.”

  Some dark, inexplicable passion rushed through her, and Isolde instinctively pressed her center to his manhood. The white-flare of need ripped the breath from her chest, and she buried her face into the crook of his neck. “We should not…”

  “Should not what?” His voice sounded as breathy as did hers. “Should not claim one moment of happiness?”

  Isolde could not dismiss how aware she was of this man’s masculinity. “One moment would never be enough.” She could taste the salt upon his skin, and Isolde ran her tongue along the crease of his neck. A groan of desire rewarded her efforts.

  A rush of silence followed before Lord Swenton placed his hands against the wall on either side of her head and lifted his body from hers. Immediately, she experienced the bleakness of his withdrawal. “Some way,” he rasped as he gently cuffed her cheek. “I mean to finish this. For now, please assist me with Lady Swenton. I cannot fathom what the future holds, but please know somehow my soul will find its way to you.”

  *

  After they had undressed Satiné, they had tucked his baroness into her bed to sleep away the effects of the medicinal. Then by silent consent, he had escorted Miss Neville into his sitting room to discuss what had happened earlier. “Evidently, my wife has discovered someone within my household to keep her confidences,” he disclosed when he had seated Miss Neville across from him and had poured her a small sherry and him a well-deserved brandy.

  “No doubt Sally,” she asserted. “The girl has ambitions, but has not yet learned subtlety.”

  Deep in thought, John nodded his agreement. “I will return the girl to Thornhill tomorrow. The duke has sent Mrs. Tailor and the boy ahead to Marwood Manor. I will see Sally returned to him.”

  Miss Neville sat straighter. “Might you inform me of what occurred this evening?”

  John closed his eyes to the shame racing to his heart. He dealt better with chaos when he could keep busy; this “rush” to wait endlessly vexed him greatly. “Lady Swenton could barely speak or move. If not for Lady Worthing’s assistance, the prince and much of the ton would have learned of Satiné’s dependency on laudanum. The only saving grace was my wife will likely not recall the appearance of Prince Henrí.”

  “Is this prince Rupert’s father?” she asked quietly.

  “In appearance, it would seem so. The boy has the countenance of the Prince of Rintoul. However, Prince Henrí claimed no previous knowledge of Rupert. He accused Lady Swenton of keeping secrets.” John recalled the familiar way the prince had spoken to Satiné, and fury rushed to his mind again.

  “What does the prince mean to do?”

  John attempted to place the tumult of his soul aside. “I have convinced Prince Henrí to call upon my household in a week. I did not think it wise for him to be seen entering Swenton Hall, but the prince made it clear he means to claim Rupert.”

  “What will you do?” she whispered into the familiar silence that rested between them. John required these moments or he would run mad into the streets. The lady held no idea how important she had become to his sanity.

  “What will I do?” he repeated. Every emotion within John rushed into the dark void of helplessness. “The question is what will my baroness do when her former lover and the father of her child makes an appearance on my threshold?”

  *

  His wife had slept throughout the day. In some ways, John had wished to shake her awake and to demand answers to the multitude of questions, which bombarded his most logical mind. However, a part of him did not want to know the truth. Did not want to discover how his wife had misled him. To discover how his baroness had provided the gossips new fodder to disparage his family.

  “I knew you would come,” his wife had declared in her one lucid moment after Prince Henrí’s appearance. But what had Satiné meant? Was the possibility of the prince’s arrival the reason Lady Swenton had fought to remain in London? Had his baroness sent word to Prince Henrí to follow her to England’s shores? Had she planned to run off with the prince and to embarrass John for his kindness? Was he destined to relive his father’s shame?

  John watched as she rocked forth and back on the bench seat. Late in the night he had decided not to mention to his baroness of Prince Henrí’s upcoming call. He had reasoned if he approached Satiné before the prince’s appearance, John would spend a week in guarding against her every deceitful move, as well as a week embroiled in numerous heated confrontations. In truth, he was exhausted by the constant arguments. Even worse than his personal discomfiture, if his wife knew Prince Henrí meant to claim Rupert, she might consider doing the boy harm. Satiné had never shown a maternal interest in the child.

  Instead, John had decided to spend the week by assisting Lady Swenton to some form of moderation. It would not be easy to convince his baroness to abandon her repeated use of the numbing medicinal, nor to restore her appetite. Coyle would arrive at the estate by Tuesday, and John would follow the learned man’s suggestions. Some way, he would find a means to reinstate his wife to some form of normalcy.

  *

  Unfortunately, his wife did not recognize her actions as unreasonable. The last one hundred miles of their journey had been the longest hours of John’s life. Satiné had napped constantly over the first two days, but the third one had been pure hell. As the laudanum had worn off, nothing pleased Lady Swenton. “This road is horrendous. When did we leave the London Road?” and “The weather is so damp, I shall likely die of consumption.” as well as “No one in his right mind would choose to live in Yorkshire.” If he handed her a lap rug to keep her warm, she complained it would soil her traveling dress. If he did not hand her one, Satiné had chastised him for his lack of sympathy.

  Yet, never once in all those hours had his wife mentioned Prince Henrí, or even the Duchess of Falkenberry’s party. John supposed if she held memories of their encounter with the three princes, Satiné considered those memories as part of a dream. He did not know whether to be grateful for the memory loss or saddened by the thought she dreamed of another man. He was so thankful when his carriage rolled to a halt before Marwood Manor he had come close to kneeling and kissing the ground.

  “Welcome to your new home, Baroness.” He lifted Satiné to the ground, but it was Miss Neville’s expression, which had enchanted him. John would never act upon his newfound desire for the woman, but he could not relinquish the ideal she had set for all other women of his acquaintance. Whereas his wife snarled her nose in disgust of the grey bricked manor house, Miss Neville’s eyes widened with what appeared to be delight. She sighed in contentment, while Lady Swenton rolled her eyes in disbelief.

  “It is not as large as I had hoped,” Satiné had said testily.

  John led her through the main door, which his butler held in reverence for them. “Then in time we will add more rooms.” He was determined not to argue with her.

  Unfortunately, by Tuesday his mood had changed, for he had bit his tongue more times than he cared to count. His wife cried constantly begging him to provide her some of the “drops”; however, John had steadfastly refused. By the time Coyle had arrived in mid-morning, John was at his wits’ end. “Thank God, you have come at last. This has been much harder than I ever could have conceived.”

  Coyle handed off his hat and gloves to John’s butler. “Come. Tell me what has transpired.”

  John led the man to his study to summarize what had occurred since he and the physician had last met.

  “And how will Lady Swenton react to my intervention?” Coyle asked with a vested interest.

  John sat heavily behind his desk. “What if we tell the baroness Prince Henrí means to call on her in five days and you have arrived as part of the pr
ince’s advanced party? I am certain that bit of information would piqued my baroness’s interest.” He hated the stab of jealousy that pierced his chest. John no longer fooled himself with the idea Satiné might learn to love him; yet, it ate at his soul his wife might respond to a man who had deserted her, when she would not give John credit for all he had sacrificed in her name.

  “Perhaps it is best if I make that particular decision after I become acquainted with your wife,” Coyle assessed.”

  *

  Surprisingly, Lady Swenton had accepted Coyle’s presence without much fuss. Perhaps she considered the good doctor another conquest, but John celebrated the few moments of quiet by drifting to the window to watch Mrs. Tailor and Miss Neville. The women had taken the boy outside for some air. He noticed how Miss Neville had included several of the estate children in the outing. The lady had organized the young ones into teams for a rousing game of cricket. It was quite telling for her to instruct his estate’s dependents in a gentleman’s game. Her actions spoke of Miss Neville’s benevolence. She cheered for each child and chased after the runners between the sticks. The lady’s wild abandon brought life to the afternoon, and John simply enjoyed watching her: the wild curls of fire caressing her neck as she bounced up and down and the flush of color upon her cheeks.

  “Pardon, Lord Swenton,” Mr. Fenton said from the open door. He extended a silver salver. “You have an express post from Sir Carter.”

  John bit back his retort. His butler possessed no knowledge of how the baronet and the Realm had found fault with John. Accepting the missive, he returned to the window. Distractedly breaking the wax seal, John unfolded the page to read what he secretly hoped was an apology. He despised being on the outs with his former companions, especially with Carter Lowery, who had become one of his closest associates. However, it was not an apology; rather, it was the end of an investigation. “Mr. Fenton!” he called with urgency.

  “Yes, Sir.” The butler appeared immediately.

  “Fetch Miss Neville. I must speak to the lady without delay.”

  In less than a minute, Miss Neville rushed into the room. Out of breath, she begged, “I hope all is well, Sir. Has something occurred with the baroness?”

  John could not hide the smile she brought to his lips. It was as if the sun and spring followed her about. “Nothing dire,” he assured. “Instead, I have news of import. I have just this minute received word of your father from Sir Carter.” He handed her the letter before organizing the papers and ledgers upon the desk.

  She mumbled as she read, “It says Papa is ill.” She glanced to him, and John could read the concern upon her countenance. “How far is it to Newcastle?”

  “Less than a hundred miles.” He retrieved his jacket from the back of the chair. “I will have a coach prepared. We may leave in a half hour.”

  She spun around to face him. “We? You cannot depart with Lady Swenton’s poor health, and I cannot stay if Papa requires my assistance.”

  John ignored her protest. “I must be at Marwood to greet Prince Henrí, but for now, Mr. Coyle attends the baroness. I am dispensable; however, you are not. If you must leave me, I mean to see you safely in your father’s care. If this news from Sir Carter is in error, you will return to Marwood so I might continue to protect you.”

  “It cannot be so, Sir,” she whispered.

  “Yet, it is. Now hurry to pack your bag. We waste time debating what has been decided.”

  She rushed past him, pausing only long enough to kiss his cheek. “You are magnificently masterful, my Lord, and I am forever in your debt.”

  The warmth of her brief kiss lingered as he slipped into his wife’s quarters. Uncharacteristically, Lady Swenton sat primly in a chair, sipping tea. He nodded his approval to Coyle before kneeling before Satiné. “My Dear, Miss Neville has received word from Sir Carter regarding her father. Mr. Neville is in a hospital in Northumberland. I mean to escort the lady north to reunite with Mr. Neville.”

  His wife frowned. “Why must you go? Can you not send a footman?”

  It was John’s turn to scowl. “Your companion has served you most loyally during your time in Vienna, as well as throughout your illness on the ship. She has treated you kindly in all matters and has gone beyond her duties to become a trusted caregiver. We owe Miss Neville a debt of gratitude.”

  Coyle added, “I will remain with you, Lady Swenton. You have promised to tell me more of Vienna’s splendor.”

  Satiné shot Coyle a perplexing look, as if she had forgotten he was in the room. “Are we acquainted, Sir?”

  John spoke softly. “I introduced you earlier. This is one of my dearest acquaintances, Mr. Foard Coyle. He is staying with us for several days. I am certain Coyle is in excellent hands with you as my hostess.” He would not mention Satiné was in excellent hands with Coyle as her physician.

  Coyle asked, “How long might you be gone, Swenton?”

  John admitted, “I have important business at Marwood on Saturday so no more than three days.” The idea of being with Isolde for three days sounded ideal. Even if they would sit beside an ailing Eoghad Neville, it would be heavenly compared to the chaos at his home.

  “As you have made your wishes known, then I suppose I possess no choice,” Satiné said testily.

  *

  He looked on with interested bemusement as Miss Neville removed the letter from her reticule and reread it for the fifth time in the past two hours. “Sir Carter does not say what ails Papa.” She dragged her teeth over her bottom lip in agitation.

  “Likely the baronet did not know the extent of Mr. Neville’s condition. Do not assume the worst.” A glint of a smile tugged at his lips. Even when distressed, the lady was adorable. “There are few women more built for crisis than you, Miss Neville. Whatever has plagued your father, you will persevere over it. I hold no doubt.”

  A crooked smile told him she thought him peculiar, but not in a bad way. “Should I consider your words flattery, Lord Swenton?”

  “I cannot say, Miss Neville.” His gaze drifted to the coach’s window. “As I have had few examples in my life of how to speak to perfectly sensible young women, I may have erred.” With an ironic chuckle, he winked at her. “However, I do believe this is one of those rare times.” He realized how light his heart felt when they were removed from the outside world. Inside the coach, it was as if only they two existed.

  She leaned heavily into the squabs. “Then I shall accept your assessment of me as the truth.” She sighed deeply. “My anticipation at being reunited with my father wars against my trepidation regarding his health. I am anxious to know more of where my father has been and how he came to be in an English hospital; on the other hand, I am elated at the prospect of knowing my family again. It feels a lifetime since I gazed upon my father’s familiar countenance. And to think, the likelihood of happiness arrives at your hand, my Lord. None of it would be possible if not for your kindness.”

  John struggled with accepting her praise; it was a “foreign” experience for him. Deliberately he chose a lighter tone and a change of subject. “Why do you not tell me of your family? Despite our close association, I know so little of your days before we met–only what you shared recently of the size of your family.”

  The lady smiled with mocking amusement, and John returned the genuine gesture. “My family is so large, Lord Swenton, we shall be long into Scotland before I finish my tale.”

  John stifled the sigh of jealousy: He had always wished for a large family. Boisterous children filling Marwood Manor with laughter and childhood wonder. “Let us begin with those who have most influenced you. Brothers? Closest cousins? Except by name, I have not heard you speak of your grandmother. Do you favor your maternal relatives or those on your father’s side?”

  Although she studied him with a bit of puzzlement, Miss Neville accepted his suggestion. John’s shoulders relaxed, and he prepared to take pleasure in her tale–to learn more of the woman who had thoroughly fascinated him. “My broth
ers Padraic and Liam would say my mother took one look at her only daughter’s ghastly hair and up and died, but Papa always says Mama presented me with her most precious feature, her thick, fiery hair. He speaks often of running his fingers through Maebh Neville’s hair.” John had considered a similar delight on more than one occasion of late. “My mother’s name means the cause of great joy or she who intoxicates.” She giggled in a girlish hiccup. “Papa certainly was intoxicated by her.”

  He nodded his encouragement for he thoroughly enjoyed the tone of her voice when she spoke of her family; it made him yearn to be a part of her dominion–to know Miss Neville’s sweetness directed at him. “Papa is the oldest of six and a baron in Leinster. Padraic, my eldest brother, tends the estate so Papa can explore his passion for history. Padraic and Kyna have two sons, Quinn and Davin, and a young daughter Gormlaith. Liam and Neela live in America, outside of Boston, with their two sons, Emmet and Fintan. I have not seen Liam’s family for some four years. My nephews must have grown very tall by now.

  “Mama lost two other sons between Liam and me. My brothers are ten and twelve years my senior. Sometimes it feels as if I have two additional fathers to make up for the lost of my mother.”

  John noted the tears that flooded her eyes. “It is difficult for a young girl never to know her mother.”

  She countered, “I believe it is life changing for any child.” A serious expression crossed her countenance. “You, Lady Swenton, and I hold that fact in common.”

  A frown tugged at his dark brows. John would prefer not to think upon his young wife sharing anything in common with him. Satiné had spent the previous three months proving they shared no values, and John had slowly accepted her thoroughly ridiculous declarations. He redirected Miss Neville’s story. “I recall your mentioning a grandmother, who practiced folk care.”

  “Yes, Ultana Redmond’s family was from South Wexford. She knew of herbs and roots. I loved to spend time in her kitchen and her stillroom. When Papa was away, and neither Padraic or Liam were of age, I spent countless hours in her modest cottage, listening to her speak of all things Irish.”