by Lavinia Kent
“Who would dare . . . ?”
She sighed, softly, but from the tensing of his shoulders she could tell he’d heard. “You gave them permission. You married me, ignored me—and then left me. For several months after you left, there was gossip about why—gossip about what a failure I’d been as a wife.” She swallowed, the pain of those first days coming back to her. “It was relatively harmless—if mean—at first, but then the tone changed. The gossip became cruel—cruel and spiteful. I was poked fun at in ways I didn’t even understand.”
He didn’t answer, but his gaze continued to hold hers, his eyes beginning to show the horror she had felt all those years ago.
She held the penis up to the light, letting it once again cast its glow about the room. “The first time my maid snuck in a cartoon of me sucking on your—your cock.” She refused to be timid in her language, not now. “I didn’t even understand. The cartoon showed me kneeling before you naked, my breasts almost concave—and you were yawning. I understood why my maid was so embarrassed—sometimes I am surprised she even had the courage to bring it to me. Unlike these most recent cartoons, they were not posted in windows; instead they were passed man to man in the back of clubs and in gambling dens.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t. You were halfway around the world looking at plants. It doesn’t matter. Those cartoons educated me quickly. I went from barely knowing what the male body looked like to knowing every position imaginable. And the worst was I began to believe them, to believe that I was some sort of—I can’t even say what I thought beyond thinking that no matter what I did I would never be able to hold a man’s attention.”
“And so you took lovers—trying to prove the cartoons wrong.” He actually sounded as if he understood.
“It was about three months after the cartoons began that this arrived.” She held the dildo out. “Even after everything I’ve said, everything I’d learned, I still didn’t realize what it was. And then, even when I looked at it and understood the shape, I didn’t realize its purpose. That changed quickly.”
“Somebody showed you?”
“My God. I am telling you about the most painful experience of my life and you can’t get past these lovers you think I’ve had.”
Of course he was thinking about whether she’d had lovers. She was his wife!
He curled his hands into fists. Of course, it was also actually easier to think about that than to think about what else she was telling him. Had he really done that to her? All he’d wanted was to help, to get her away from her uncle. Well, perhaps there had been more to it than that. He’d been drawn to her for reasons he didn’t understand. And he’d liked her, liked her quiet grace, liked the way she kept her head up even as she held silent, liked the quiet smiles she’d give when he told a joke, liked the kindness she’d shown the servants in the face of her uncle’s careless cruelty.
But it was he who had been the most cruel, not her uncle. If what she told him was true—and clearly it was—then he had done her unimaginable harm.
“I will forget about the lovers.” And he would. He had clearly driven her to whatever she had done. His nails bit into his palms as he fought to keep his voice even. “Go on. I will listen.”
“To this day I don’t know who sent this thing to me, who thought it was a good bit of fun to have a messenger deliver it. I do know that whoever it was did not keep silent about it. Everywhere I went for the next couple months, men—men of all ages and every status—would sidle up to me, whisper in my ear the most vulgar of suggestions as to what to do with this.”
“And yet you kept it?” If it had been him, it would have gone crashing through a window that first morning.
“I think at first I was ashamed to get rid of it. I was afraid the staff would see it and know. I am sure that they knew anyway, but they never indicated that anything was wrong. My personal maid stopped showing me the cartoons after the first couple weeks. I think she saw how much they hurt me. And so within these walls we pretended nothing was wrong. I am surprised sometimes that I was ever able to leave the house.”
“And then what happened?”
“I had a caller. Lady Carrington came to see me. I had only the vaguest idea of who she was. I knew that she was slightly scandalous, but that was all. I was beyond shocked when she walked into the room and asked to see my penis. It took me a while to understand what she wanted—and then I still wasn’t sure why. I thought she was one more person come to poke fun at me. I think I brought it out to her in a fit of pique more than anything else. And she took it, looked it over calmly, and told me that at least it was a nice one. I certainly didn’t see anything nice about it. And then she sat me down and talked. I can’t remember what she said, but she spent hours telling me exactly what it should be used for, how it should be used with love and care, and the pleasure it could bring. And she told me about men and what children they could be—what bullies they were. She told me that if I ever wanted it to end, I needed to be strong. And then she told me to take a lover and let the world know.”
He would kill Lady Carrington. What sort of woman was she to give a young girl such advice? Biting his tongue to the point of drawing blood, he didn’t speak. It was clear his wife had more to say.
“She must have seen the horror on my face,” Elizabeth continued. “I felt so abused by men—most especially you—and she wanted me to take one as a lover? Unthinkable. And then she said that appearing to take a lover was almost as good as taking one in actuality. She even knew the names of men who would be happy to have it rumored that they were having affairs. Between us we schemed and managed and within a month my reputation had changed. There were still rumors, but of a very different type.”
“So you never truly took a lover?”
“I did not say that.” She didn’t look at him.
He was tempted to press the point, to demand an answer. It was clear she was avoiding a direct answer, but why? Was she frightened to tell him that she’d actually had lovers while he’d been gone? She hadn’t been scared when she’d implied as much before. Yes, there were certainly husbands who would have beaten her, if not worse, for such a crime. She’ didn’t seem scared, however—and she certainly didn’t need to be. He might look like he could beat down a house, but he’d never taken his fists to anyone unless threatened. And he’d certainly never hit a woman.
So why didn’t she answer the question? If she’d never taken a lover, why didn’t she just say?
And then, suddenly, looking into the almost black depths of her eyes, he understood.
Pride.
By not answering she held on to her pride.
She told him that what he thought did not matter.
That what she’d done did not matter.
And she was right. He dropped her gaze and turned away from her, walking to the door to his adjoining room. He opened the door and stared at the dwarf bed. He deserved this. He would have deserved it if she’d decorated the room in pink frills and left dolls upon his pillow.
He’d tried his best all those years ago, but he had failed—failed with no true thought for anybody but himself.
He’d thought he was saving her from those lecherous old suitors and instead he’d hurt her himself.
An ache began low in his gut. All the pain she’d experienced had only made her stronger, made her into the magnificent woman she was. “There is nothing I can say except that I am sorry. More sorry than you will ever know. This was never my intention.”
Gripping the door handle tight, he stepped into his chamber and shut the door behind.
THE MAIDS
“I am not sure I like looking at these anymore.” Abby turned from the window and looked up at Jane. “When they started it was so much fun. Now, I just feel dirty.”
Jane looked at the increasingly scandalous cartoons. These were just unpleasant. The things they were suggesting that Lady Westhampton would do. It was unthinkable. “Paul, the footman I’ve been out
walking with, says they’re not even new. He says they’re reprinting ones from years ago. I believe it. When I look at Lady Westhampton she doesn’t look like she does in these. She always looks so fierce now. These make her look like she’d faint if a mouse walked past her.”
“Well, she isn’t shy now. Did you hear what happened in the park two days ago?”
“You mean when she ripped the dowager duchess’s dress and got slapped in return? Can you imagine getting slapped in the park? And for a lady to do it. I am surprised there aren’t cartoons about that. I heard that her face was so swollen she couldn’t go out at night. And that Lady Westhampton has sworn to get back at the dowager duchess.”
“I know the cartoons about Lady Westhampton are awful, but why would she want to get back at the dowager duchess? She’s the one who ripped the dress.”
“I don’t know,” Jane answered. “But all the women who have been visiting with Lady Smythe-Burke have been talking of nothing else. I think everybody is waiting with bated breath to see what will happen between them.”
“And what about these older cartoons—the ones Paul was talking about. Is there any mention of those?” Abby was full of curiosity.
“No. But from what Paul says, I gather that most of them were not something you would show to a lady. They were whispered about in the backs of shops, not hung in the windows.”
Abby’s eyes grew wide. “I can’t even imagine.”
“I know. Paul refused to show them to me.”
“Well, I can’t imagine what would be worse than that.” Abby pointed to one of the drawings pasted to the window.
“Oh dear. I can’t believe they actually hung that in public. I don’t care what people say. I feel sorry for Lady Westhampton.”
“I do too,” Abby said after a moment. “But I can’t wait until they all meet at Lord Pepperidge’s ball. It will be the first one to honor the king’s coming coronation.”
“Lady Smythe-Burke has said they are all bound to be there.” Jane leaned forward and whispered, “And she’s promised to tell me all about it when I stay up to help her off with her gown.”
Abby smiled. “I imagine there will be plenty to tell.”
“We will just have to wait and see.”
CHAPTER SIX
Four days and she’d hardly seen her husband. Elizabeth plucked at the black lace on the front of her gown. The style was definitely not the most becoming for her figure. She looked like a pole stuck through a hot air balloon. She’d hoped that the deep blue silk and black lace would help to show her slender figure, but instead she just looked depressed, not at all the way she wished to appear at Pepperidge’s ball.
Not that it mattered. With four days to think she’d realized that the only one whose opinion mattered was her husband, and he seemed in no hurry to even glance at her. She’d seen him twice at breakfast, but he’d hidden behind the newspaper. They’d also brushed past each other in the hall, and he’d murmured some polite comment about the weather and asked if she’d enjoyed the musicale the night before. She hadn’t, but she certainly hadn’t been able to say that. Instead she’d said something about a wonderful soprano and had he gone to his club? He had. End of discussion. She’d hoped he’d join her for dinner, but after two nights of eating alone she’d decided to take a tray in her room. There’d been sounds of him moving about in his own chamber, but he hadn’t knocked on the adjoining door—not that she’d been hoping he would. She’d learned long ago not to hope.
His chamber . . . If nothing else she’d expected to hear about that. How could he be fitting his massive frame into that small bed? An inquiry of the maid had revealed nothing except that he did sleep in the room and that, yes, the covers had been disturbed.
Should she offer to have his old bed brought down from the attics? It had been quite a handsome bed and she’d only had it removed in a fit of pique. A smile climbed her cheeks. It had been fun redecorating his room in such an impossible fashion. There had been a great temptation to give him frilly curtains and satin pillow covers, but she had resisted, sensing that sometimes less could be more.
There was a sudden thump from behind his door. He must be dressing as well. Had he dropped a shoe?
A sudden image filled her mind of the marriage she’d hoped for when he’d first proposed, a marriage where the door between them would have stood open and she could have wandered in and inquired at the sound.
A loud curse sounded. She took a step toward the door. Surely that was worth an inquiry?
No, she would wait and see him downstairs.
Another curse.
What on earth could be going on?
Damnation. It had been four years since he’d been forced into formal attire and he was not finding the experience at all pleasing. William looked at himself in the tight coat and shuddered. He didn’t have an ounce of fat on his body, but his broad shoulders, large chest, and thick thighs made him look like a well-squeezed sausage. Why would anybody choose to dress this way?
His newly-hired valet assured him it was the social standard and that he looked “delicious.” How had he ever hired a man who used the word ‘delicious’ to describe anything but a large, rare steak?
He turned again, staring at himself in the half-mirror. He was not a vain man, he understood that he was too big to ever be considered truly handsome, but he’d always felt passable. He supposed he felt the same now. It didn’t actually look too bad. It was more that he was unused to anything so tight—particularly trousers. And the coat, who had ever designed such a cutaway? The combination of that and the tight trousers made him feel that he was trying to show off his masculine pride.
No matter. It wasn’t like anyone would be looking at him except with curiosity about his return. Taking that as reassurance, he stepped out of the chamber and made his way down the stairs.
His wife stood at the bottom, but his wife as he’d never seen her. He’d always known she was beautiful; even when she’d looked a skinny child, he’d seen the elegance of her bones and grace of her carriage.
But this woman. This woman was something else.
Her black hair was twisted up, caught with a jeweled sapphire clip. No frozen curls for his wife, just thick black silk that looked as if it would tumble about her shoulders with a single twist. And her shoulders, so strong and delicate all at once. The angles were sharp, but covered over with soft, curving feminine flesh. She had the skin of a ripe peach—soft, velvet, and begging for a bite.
She must have heard him because she turned, her dark eyes deepening even more as she took him in.
A small shiver took her and his eyes dropped. Her breasts were outlined in black lace. Was she trying to tease his every fantasy? Given the smiling cow and tiny bed, he would not put it past her. The gown was low, very low. Her perfect breasts almost peeking through the lace. They would fit so perfectly in his palm, his thumbs just brushing over the nipples.
Damn, his pants were tight.
He directed his gaze back to her face, hoping to hide his reaction. His wife already did not feel fondly toward him, and with good reason. If she caught him panting like a hound dog after a rabbit, she’d probably be further disgusted. She’d made it very clear what she thought of lecherous men.
“You look very nice, my dear,” he said.
Her mouth tensed, and then relaxed, but not completely. She turned from him. “I believe you are also attending Pepperidge’s ball. Will we be travelling together?”
She looked very nice. Were those not warm words to hear from one’s husband? Next he’d tell her she was passably pretty or didn’t look too bad. Her cousins had said that on more than one occasion. Lizzy, you don’t look as bad as I thought you would. The words still burned in her mind.
She straightened her shoulders, held her head high. She didn’t care what he thought. She was glad she’d held back her exclamation about how wonderful he looked in his evening coat, how it emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and made her long to touch them, to see
if they could possibly be that broad or if the tailor had added some padding.
And his thighs. She’d often heard other woman remark on a strong leg and well-turned calf, but never until she’d seen the power of movement in William’s thighs had she understood. His tight trousers showed every line of definition as he moved. She could picture him naked, each muscle standing out clearly.
Knowing that her cheeks were marked with high color, she turned away.
“Yes, we will travel together—if you do not mind?” His voice was gruff.
Had she displeased him in some way? Her mind filled with how he’d turned her away four years ago. He had not found her desirable then and clearly found her even less so now. Then she’d had youth on her side. Now she only had . . . . She didn’t even know what she had.
“That would be acceptable.” There, that was an appropriate answer, not betraying how deeply she really felt.
He nodded and held out his arm.
She wrapped her fingers about it, wishing that she could not feel the heat of his body even through his jacket and her own gloves. The man must burn like a coal oven.
Thinking of the huge plate she’d seen him demolish at breakfast it seemed like an apt description. A coal oven that needed a lot of fuel. No wonder he always moved with such energy, such unrepressed action. Maybe he had needed to go off and see the world simply to find some way to expend that great life force.
Now she was just being fanciful. He’d gone because he wanted to and for no other reason. She might have come to believe that he truly hadn’t gone because of her, but then neither had he stayed because of her.
Their feet tapped lightly down the steps and walk. The carriage, his crest painted on the door, stood waiting. Holding her skirts high, she stepped in. He followed, but hesitated, trying to decide where to sit.