Scandalous Brides

by Annette Blair

  Her campaign to have the new Countess of Salt Hendon disgraced and disowned before the Earl had impregnated his bride had begun in earnest and she would be relentless in its execution.

  So, as she had done when first introduced, Diana St. John silently curtseyed to rank and retreated to the spectator boxes. Once ensconced with her friends, she continued weaving her web of rumor and counter-rumor. The female crème de la crème of polite society were only too eager to soak up malicious whispers about an unknown girl from the country who’d had the effrontery to usurp them and marry one of their own. The Earl of Salt Hendon was not only the most eligible bachelor in the kingdom, but was a prime piece of unfettered male vigor the likes of which had not been seen since a French chit had captured the heart of that hardened libertine the Duke of Roxton in the ’40s.

  Sir Antony smiled sweetly as his meddlesome sister flounced off, and said to the Earl, “Well, you’d best prove Pascoe wrong, Salt, because I have a ten pound wager saying you’ll trounce him within half an hour.”

  “Half an hour? Why should I take that long?” Salt murmured in response, distracted by the sight of his bride dressed in one of the many new gowns he’d had ordered made for her, and that now crammed her closet to bursting.

  He was thinking how ravishingly pretty she presented in a very feminine sacque back gown of pale green and pink silk, the tight sleeves showcasing her long, slim arms. And he approved of her elegant hairstyle. Gone were the coils of unfashionable braids. Her waist-length hair was piled softly atop her head and secured with pearl-headed pins and threaded with matching ribbons, the remainder allowed to cascade about her shoulders in long soft ringlets. But he was mystified as to why she had ruined the effect of the low square-cut neckline of the embroidered bodice that should have flattered her small round breasts, by the wearing of a gossamer fichu bunched awkwardly over her left breast. Surely she only had to ask and her maid would have arranged such a useless article of feminine clothing to better advantage? And then he noticed the square of white linen tucked into the neckline; it appeared to be some sort of makeshift bandage…

  Slow to respond to Sir Antony’s assertion, he finally added with a frown, “So Pascoe Church is confident of trouncing me?”

  “Not exactly trouncing, my lord,” Tom admitted, looking to Sir Antony.

  “Beating you, certainly, dear fellow,” Sir Antony said cheerfully, one glance at Jane and another at his best friend confirming that he and Tom should make themselves scarce, to allow the couple a moment of privacy. “But I know you’ll prove Pascoe wrong. I don’t want to lose ten pounds. So, Tom, let’s get ourselves cleaned up and repair to the Gentleman’s Box to await our next match. And I could do with some refreshment. I’m parched.”

  “What have you done to yourself?” Salt demanded of Jane in an under voice, Sir Antony and Tom barely out of earshot.

  He put out a hand to lift the fichu to inspect the bandage but Jane backed away from the barrier and resumed her seat on a maroon velvet cushion. The barrier was no deterrent to Salt who simply vaulted over the low wall and sat down beside her on the bench. He tried again to lift the fichu but she pushed his hand away.

  “I…I like it. It’s all the rage.”

  “Nonsense. It’s hideous, and a crime to hide such beautiful breasts. Take it off.”

  Jane blushed in spite of herself at his unguarded compliment, but she did not remove the fichu. “No, my lord. I will not.”

  “My lord?” He put up his brows. “Well, my lady, I shall remove it for you.”

  At that Jane did look up at him. “No. Please. I am more comfortable with it on.”

  Salt frowned at her distress. “What is it?” he asked gently. “Why do you have a bandage hidden under that fichu?”

  “Nothing. It’s nothing,” she whispered, not meeting his gaze and in a telltale sign of her distress, blotches of color stained her white throat strawberry. “Please. You’ve a tennis match on now and you’re wanted.”

  “If you’ve hurt yourself I have a right to know,” he said gruffly. “What if someone enquires and I can’t answer them? Won’t I look the uncaring brute?”

  “They already have asked,” she admitted, eyes lowered to her lap, on the re-sized sapphire and diamond wedding band that now fit her long finger perfectly. “I was clumsy with a tea dish and scalded myself. That will suffice.”

  “What truly happened?” he asked, ignoring the loud bantering at his back to get a move on or Pascoe Church would win by default.

  “It doesn’t matter. It couldn’t be helped. Please go.”

  “They can wait. Now show me.”

  She shook her head, a hand to the bunched up layers of gossamer silk to stop him removing it.

  “It’s not a request,” he stated brusquely.

  Slowly, with a sigh of defeat, she dropped her hand into her lap. This time when he went to touch her she did not flinch, but she wouldn’t look at him either. He unwound the layers of light silk and let the fichu slide to the floor, exposing the lovely rise of her white breasts in the low cut embroidered bodice and the makeshift bandage that was tucked in the neckline covering her left breast. He gently lifted the bandage and his intake of breath was audible.

  What had been the unblemished pale pink wash of her nipple now glowed red like veal. A cursory glance suggested a nasty burn. If he’d had his eyeglasses to make a closer inspection he was sure he’d see that the wash of red across her breast was actually a series of tiny red bumps, resembling a painful grazing. In fact, it was a graze and he knew at once its origin and he felt his face grow hot. He silently replaced the bandage, scooped up the fichu and put the gossamer layers of silk back around Jane’s bare shoulders. He then went down on bended knee before her to better arrange its fall, so that it draped evenly. Crossing the two lengths of gossamer material over her breasts, he tied the ends at the small of her back, tucking the excess into the lacings of her bodice. Satisfied that this arrangement was more the fashion amongst ladies of his acquaintance, he remained on his haunches before her and took hold of her hands.

  “Jane, look at me,” he coaxed, but when she continued to stare at her hands in his, he lifted her chin with the crook of a finger. Still she kept her eyes downcast. Her cheeks were apple red and she appeared every bit the blushing bride the morning after the night before. It increased his discomfort and concern enough for him to say abruptly, “I should’ve had the decency to shave. I’m sorry. It was unthinking of me—Do you have ointment? Good,” he said with relief at her quick nod. “Did I—Did I hurt you when I—Not the rash. When I—God, I’m blathering like an idiot!” he said brusquely and got up off his haunches, a hand to his thick chestnut hair as he turned to look out across the tennis court without seeing any of it. He sat down beside her. “I mean—I mean when I—when we—”

  “I know what you mean,” she interrupted, quietly. “Yes, but only for the briefest of moments,” she confessed at his quick intake of breath, adding with a frankness he found inimitable to her, “It’s just that we have only made love the once—in truth it was twice in the summerhouse, but just the one time, if you understand my meaning. And it’s been four years, so even though making love is quite wonderful, I’d forgotten that the first few moments are-are awkward, and as you are a large man it is only natural—Oh dear! Now I’m the one blathering. Please forgive me…”

  Jane was up off the bench, face burning with mortification for having the barefaced cheek to comment aloud on the laudable size of his equipage. What must he think of her? They should not be discussing what happened in the bedchamber between man and wife in the wide-open spaces of a tennis court inhabited by upwards of twenty guests. She felt foolish and gauche for confessing to a moment’s anxiety. What she should have said was that making love with him last night had been just as wondrous and fulfilling as in the summerhouse, but she could not. No doubt it was perfectly acceptable for his mistresses to point out his size, and to heap praises on his technique and stamina as a lover, but not som
ething he would want to hear from a wife with all the cumulative experience of two nights!

  The silence dragged and when she had the courage to look at him his intense frown told her that he had a disgust of such frankness. Her humiliation was complete when one of the footmen came up to the barrier to remind his lordship that Pascoe Church was waiting and the Earl abruptly changed the subject.

  “Andrews went out of his way not to implicate you in Lady St. John’s late night note,” he said conversationally. “But I believe I have you to thank for allowing me an undisturbed sleep?”

  This did make her smile. “So you aren’t angry at us for not waking you?”

  “Angry? No, I’m grateful, particularly with this tournament today,” he admitted. “Diana is just an overprotective mother. Which isn’t a bad thing, but it can be tiresome at times. As you no doubt saw through the netting, she is apt to overdramatize the situation where her children are concerned. But she means well.”

  Means well? Jane had to wonder, recalling the effect Diana St. John’s strong perfume had had on her the day before in the cold anteroom and if she was being foolish to suppose the woman had stage managed the scene outside the Gallery box where she sat. That she knew full well the new Countess of Salt Hendon sat behind the netting and thus had a front row seat to Diana St. John’s possessive ownership of the Earl.

  She wished with all her heart that Salt was right and that there was no harm in his cousin, but there was something about Diana St. John that made her wary and fearful, and these feelings could not be shaken off so readily.

  “There’s a dinner after the tournament,” Salt was saying. “It’s a bit of an ordeal, if you’re not used to sitting through thirty courses and political chit-chat. After that, there’s a recital. If you don’t feel up to it, if you’d prefer to retire early, I’ll make your excuses and Diana can step in and—”

  “No,” she said firmly and smiled. “I’ll be fine. Truly.”

  He lightly pressed her hand then turned to the court and put up a hand to Pascoe Church, who was swinging his hickory racket about in thin air, as if ready to conquer the entire fraternity of assembled tennis players. He looked back at Jane. “They’re calling me for the match. Will you be all right sitting here alone?”

  “Yes. Perfectly. Now go,” she assured him and watched as he vaulted back over the barrier and jogged across the court.

  From the start it was a fast-paced, go for the throat match, with both men equally talented tennis players. The small solid ball was hit hard and fast and was spun in all directions, with the peculiar hazard of the tambour and the angle of wall and floor offering exciting placement options that kept Jane on the edge of her velvet cushion, in anticipation of where the ball would land next. Salt was superior in anticipating the ball’s drop and being taller and longer-limbed than his opponent was able to stretch his racket and get to the ball more often. But Pascoe Church was lighter and faster on his feet and bounced about the court on his toes, reminding Jane of a rooster chased by a determined fox.

  There was plenty of vocal support for both players coming from the Gallery and Jane soon found herself clapping and cheering along with the rest of the noble spectators. At interval, it was time for the players to change sides and take a few moments of rest before resuming the game. Footmen brought the players hot towels and refreshments and lackeys ran about with cloths tied to the ends of long poles to wipe the tiled floor dry of sweat.

  Many of the Gallery boxes had pulled aside their netting to allow the spectators to lean across the barriers to exchange conversation with their fellow spectators in other boxes and to speak with the two players. This was a time of much loud conversation, toasting of glasses and footmen coming and going with bottles of claret and champagne. Then a huge cheer went up amongst the men. Such was the general uproar of cat-calling, giggling and female shrieking at the far end of the court where Salt and Pascoe Church stood catching their breath and chatting, that even Jane leaned out of her box with the rest of the spectators to see what all the fuss was about.

  A number of articles of female clothing had been thrown in direction of the two players and had landed at their feet. At least three fans, a fichu, one mask, two reticules, a number of gloves and even a couple of stockings and garters littered the tiled court. Another glove sailed through the air and landed by the toe of Salt’s left shoe. But it was not this that he scooped up but a female stocking and garter. He draped these feminine articles over the stringed head of his racket then held the tennis racket out at arm’s length, not unlike holding a sword at the ready, and took a bow with an exaggerated flourish.

  Another cheer went up when he proceeded to return the stocking and garter to its rightful owner, several giggling ladies, undoubtedly drunk, denying loudly that such intimate objects were theirs and lifting up their petticoats above the ankles as if it was necessary for them to provide proof of their boastful denials. Jane could not see the female to whom Salt offered his racket with another bow, but there was no doubts as to the significance of the offering when one of the ladies in the box next to Jane’s, who was leaning so far over the barrier, fluttering her fan, that her big breasts were in danger of falling out of her low cut bodice, made an announcement to her companions that Jane heard above the laughing and the cheering further along the Gallery.

  “There you have it, Eliza! What did I tell you? Salt’s chosen Jenny Dalrymple and thus ends Elizabeth Outram’s reign as maîtresse en titre. They never last more than a year; never have.”

  “They’re lucky to last that long given his sword is rarely sheathed.”

  There was a series of unfeminine snorts and a burst of raucous female laughter.

  “Oh, Eliza! You have such a quaint vulgar way of expressing yourself!”

  “How ever does Diana bear with his infidelities?” enquired a third whining voice through the thin wall that divided Jane’s spectator box from the next.

  “She bears it as we all do,” was the haughty reply. “Selective blindness. It’s not our place to question a lover’s, and certainly not a husband’s, straying. It’s not as if these lapses mean anything.”

  “Mine certainly don’t.”

  “Eliza! Eliza! Do stop or I’ll burst my stays! You teasing girl.”

  “But what about his bride?” the whining voice asked. “Will she be as understanding as the rest of us? I mean, what do you know about her?”

  “You tell me, Susannah. What do any of us know about the little upstart?”

  “None of us know anything. Although, Diana did mention something about Salt marrying the little ninny to settle a gambling debt. God! What a waste of noble flesh. On a Bristol Blue Glass merchant’s daughter no less.”

  “There isn’t enough meat on her bones to satisfy a man of Salt’s strong appetites. He’s always fancied ’em plump-breasted and big-thighed.”

  “Is that such a surprise when he’s as solid as an ox and hung like one too?”

  There were gasps of laughter and girlish giggles until the one with the whining voice said, “For a man of Salt’s physical prowess it must’ve been a most unsatisfactory coupling.”

  “Most unsatisfactory.”

  “Particularly when a groom has a right to expect his bride to be untouched on their wedding night.”

  “Whatever can you mean?”

  “Diana says that if ever the truth got out… You must promise not a word—”

  “Not a word!” came the quick reply in unison.

  “It’s not something a man wants his friends, and certainly not his political enemies, to discover about the bride. It’s all to do with male pride.”

  “What? The pitcher was already cracked?”

  There was a horrified gasp. “She wasn’t a virgin on her wedding night!”

  “Oh, Eliza! Just when I begin to think your pretty little head is stuffed full of wool you surprise me. You clever cherub! Yes. Spoiled goods.”

  “How utterly vulgar!”

  “Yes. As vulgar as
her lineage. What can one expect? Certainly this blue glass has imperfections.”

  “Clever!”

  “Salt’s gambling debt must’ve amounted to a pretty guinea indeed.”

  “And she isn’t even one of us.”

  “Definitely not one of us, my dear Eliza.”

  “Poor Salt.”

  “And poor Diana. Let’s not forget Diana. How she must be suffering. But such a brave face!”

  “Oh, yes! Susannah, you are so right. She’s been in love with Salt since forever.”

  “Yes, Eliza, we all know Salt is the great love of Diana’s life but we don’t say it out loud.”

  “What a pity St. John came between them.”

  “Not in all things, my dear Susannah. There is the rumor, which Diana has never denied, that her two brats—”

  “—are Salt’s?”

  There was a collective gasp.

  “Good God! How Extraordinary!”

  “But… Isn’t there also the rumor he’s barren?”

  One of the women made a sound reminiscent of a startled pheasant. “Salt? Barren? Don’t be a dolt, Eliza! A divine specimen of maleness who can go on and on and on, barren? Ha!”

  “Well, even if he isn’t barren, who’s to know? Diana’s friend Artemisia is always quick to put a stop to any unwanted breeding.”

  “Indeed, Susannah? Interesting. Exceedingly interesting.”

  “Yes, I thought you would find it so. She helped me in a most difficult predicament.”

  “Arta who?” interrupted the whining voice.

  The explanation was given as if speaking to a child, or one who did not know the English tongue. “Artemisia. Syrup of Artemisia. Surely you’ve heard of it? Rids one of unwanted brats before they are formed.”