Married to a Rogue

by Donna Lea Simpson

  “Mother accused me of trying to lure the captain into my bed by exposing my body to him.” She shivered again, her expression haunted and fearful. “At first she had not believed the captain, she said, but he had described my mark in intimate detail and only a man who had had a close view could do that.”

  Emily tipped the girl’s plain face up and held it, her fingers under her chin. “Do not be ashamed, Grishelda. This is nothing to do with you.”

  “That is the hold he has over me! I will never be able to convince my mother of his despicable plot because she believes I want him for myself.” She shuddered. “I can’t stand it when he looks at me like he wants to . . .” Grishelda’s normally calm voice and serene manner cracked. “And to know he has seen me! And perhaps touched me! How can any woman allow a man to touch her: her body, her breasts?” Her voice had a sharp edge of hysteria.

  “Grishelda!” Emily’s voice held a commanding tone, and the young woman calmed. She would not allow the girl’s exaggerated fears to overwhelm her. As it was Grishelda had some deeply held aversion to men that Emily did not understand, but that was a matter for another day, after the immediate danger was over. If that fear was all that was keeping her from marriage then she needed to come to terms with it and make her life decisions based on reality, not some fiction that men were rabid beasts with only sexual hungers and needs. She needed to understand the tenderness that was a part of marital love.

  She could start to challenge Grishelda’s beliefs now, in this situation. “Don’t mistake how you feel when a man like Captain Dempster looks at you or touches you with the way it is and should be between a man and a woman.”

  Grishelda’s pale blue eyes widened. “Do you mean you like it? Marital intimacy, I mean. It just seems so foreign, surrendering your body to a man, allowing him to invade you in such an animal way.”

  Emily felt a surge of impatience. Perhaps young women were now being raised with an altogether too refined notion of relations between men and women. She had been raised in the country with a country woman’s ready understanding and acceptance of the physical nature of life. She had come to the marriage bed knowing what to expect after several frank discussions with village women of her acquaintance. In fact, she and Baxter, unable to wait another moment, had anticipated their marriage vows by several days in one ecstatic afternoon by a stream in the countryside. That day he had gently and sensually initiated her into the world of physical love, taking her virginity and teaching her some of the ways they would find to enhance the experience.

  Grishelda was watching her curiously. Emily felt her face flush hotly. Now was not the time to be daydreaming about all she had lost. As it was that knowledge followed her every day, every moment, and likely would for the rest of her days.

  “Your willing surrender is a part of womanhood, a precious part. It is the gift you give the man you love, and if you have chosen to love wisely he will treasure that gift and love you all the more for it. But do not mistake it! Men give up a part of themselves, too, and that is something not too many women understand. I am going to tell you a secret. A woman can wield considerable power over a man. Some women use this power indiscriminately and lose the efficacy of it. That is your mother.

  “A wise women uses it sparingly until it increases in potency. At its full power, you can lure a man to your side with just a look, just a glance. It is a heady feeling, like the finest wine.” Emily sighed, remembering her marriage. Baxter never knew that the simmering looks she would throw him across a crowded ballroom were calculated, designed to entice him into a hasty departure. She was not one much for balls and routs and had found a delicious and exciting way to cut an evening short whenever she had felt the need. Perhaps some would say that it diminished a woman to use sexual power for her own gain, but Emily believed it was a part of the dance men and women engaged in, the parry and thrust of everyday life and love. Men used the strength nature gave them; why should women not use their own natural endowment?

  Looking uncomfortable, her guest shifted. “I never thought that women had any power in marriage. I always thought of them as losing all of their rights, all of their self-determination—”

  “We do give up some, but if you choose carefully and from the heart, you will gain more than you lose. Sex is not the only power in marriage, nor even the most effective; that of love is far stronger and more lasting. Look at my niece, Celestine.”

  Nodding, Grishelda smiled. “I have never seen anyone so happy as she was on her wedding day.”

  “But she was nervous about her wedding night!” Emily laughed. “I reassured her that it was only painful for a moment, and the reward is years of pleasure and happiness. I saw her the next day and she was radiant. I think she discovered how right I was.”

  “I still cannot quite believe that. I have been taught that for a woman pleasure in marriage is not to be found in the marriage bed, but out of it. I have always believed that my mother was one of the rare women for whom intimacy is enjoyable.”

  Emily snorted. “Your mother doesn’t enjoy sex! She uses it as a weapon, thinking she is conquering a man, but she cheapens the nature of loving sensuality until she makes it into a farce.”

  “I never thought of it that way. I always thought that she craved it and could not help herself. I have long known that she is not in control and that she needs male admiration and seeks it the only way she can. If you are right she is attempting to take the upper hand in her dealing with men, and failing.”

  Her aqua eyes held a thoughtful gleam, and Emily hoped that she had given the girl something to think about. She now had a much better idea of what kept the girl from any intention of marrying and hoped that her rationality would win out eventually over irrational fears.

  “But back to the business at hand. I think . . .” Hearing a commotion in the hall, Emily realized that more visitors must be arriving. “Do you go to the masquerade at the LaCoursiere’s tonight? And is your mother going to be there?”

  “Mother is going but I had not thought to attend, though she has been most adamant that I go.”

  “Go then, and I will try to talk to your mother sometime during the night and see if we can resolve this nonsense of marrying you off to Lord Saunders. Perhaps she will see reason. More importantly, I will find out what I can about this plot to abduct you. I am not without influence, and Lord Saunders may not be aware of Dempster’s despicable nature and nasty reputation.”

  • • •

  The LaCoursiere masquerade ball was an annual affair that had started with the French émigré family’s—the Duc de LaCoursiere, his duchesse and children—attempts to raise money for their impoverished brethren. Now that the war was over the need had not disappeared and the event went on as planned, with money gathered to support the French who had been displaced and ruined during the revolution and long war.

  Sedgely, who had family in France, or at least distant relations, felt compelled to attend even though he had no intention of masquerading. A simple black domino and mask that he could shed as the evening wore on was all he would condescend to. As a generous supporter, Lessington was also there, dressed as an Elizabethan courtier.

  “Haven’t seen you lately, Baxter. Where have you been hiding?”

  “Everybody has been trying to convince me to stay safe and now you complain because I haven’t been out and about enough? Come, Less, make up your mind.”

  Less held up his hands in mock surrender. “I shall leave it alone, then. Have you seen your wife? She is here, you know.”

  At that moment, Baxter saw her and his breath caught in his throat. She was dressed as a simple peasant girl, with a low-cut blue dress of deceptively simple line and a white apron over it. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders, a dark mass of curls. A throb pulsed through his body and he felt his groin tighten at the first view of his wife since bedding her what seemed an eon ago.

  Her attire might be simple, but to him it was provocative and arousing. It took him back to the fi
rst moment he saw her more than fifteen years before. Her eyes met his through the crowd and in one searing instant it was as if their marriage was alive again. She gave him that look, that wanton, sensual, burning gaze, and then the dropped eyelashes and sinuous movement that made her breasts strain the fabric and her hips sway.

  His self-control crumbled and he was about to move across the room to her before he caught himself. He swallowed, took a deep breath and held himself rigidly. What game did she play? Why did she torture him?

  Less stared at him, his gray eyes wide. “Like a moth to a flame.”

  Baxter, a hunger that had nothing to do with food gnawing at his insides, turned to Less. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. Ah, look! Her so-faithful Frenchman has caught sight of her as well.”

  Baxter was glad of the mask. He felt his lips draw back from his teeth as rage surged through him. He was a sophisticated man—civilized, intelligent—but something about this whole affair brought out his most primitive urges, the desire to rend and tear his rival limb from limb. All the control he had achieved over his temper in his adult years was perilously close to giving out. Emily greeted Marchant with a smile; he raised her ungloved hand to his lips and kissed it, holding it much longer than necessary and moving much too close to her. She looked across the room at Baxter again, but his heart had frozen to solid ice.

  • • •

  Emily cursed Etienne’s timing. Instinct had driven her to use the sexual invitation she knew had always drawn her husband to her side. Their relationship was not purely sexual—they had loved each other from the start and she still loved him fiercely, tenderly—but there was a strong undercurrent of sensuality that had not waned, at least for her, with the intervening years apart. She had almost thought Baxter meant to come to her but then he had paused. If Etienne had not joined her at that moment with fulsome compliments, she would have abandoned pride and gone to Baxter. They had to solve what was between them because their marriage was not over, no matter what they had agreed upon with a lawyer and papers. She was furious with him for his abandonment of her after making love to her again, but this time she had sworn not to let anger or misplaced pride destroy them. Perhaps she had no choice in this matter though. If he chose to cut her off as he had obviously done, there was not a thing she could do about it.

  Scanning the crowd for Grishelda and Lady van Hoffen, Emily merely nodded as Etienne spoke.

  “I will bring for you some refreshment then,” he said and bowed over her hand, flinging back the cape of his Arab prince costume to reveal a very impressive saber sashed to his side.

  “What? Oh, certainly,” Emily said, just happy he intended to leave her alone for a while. His attentions, flattering at first, had now become irksome. She fervently wished he would find someone else to bestow his regard upon. She had not yet solved the puzzle of who he was and she longed to confront him with the fact that he was not the Vicomte Etienne Marchant, but until she knew if he was connected to the attempts against Baxter she did not dare drive him from her side.

  There was Grishelda! She was dressed in a simple white gown with the red ribbon around her neck that was a symbol of compassion and support for the men and women who had gone to the guillotine during the Reign of Terror. For a while the red ribbon had been the fashion among English girls, but that was long exploded. To Emily her attire seemed to say much more. Did she identify with martyrdom? Or did she feel she was being constrained and led to her slaughter?

  She motioned to the young woman and Grishelda floated over to her. She was not a beautiful girl, Emily thought, but she had presence. She was graceful and lissome, even more so in the simple scooped-neck dress, naked of any adornment save a silver cross that dangled in her modest décolletage.

  Emily raised her eyebrows as the young woman joined her. “That costume is quite a statement, my dear. Do you see yourself as looking forward to a sacrifice on level with the French who died in the Terror?”

  Grishelda flushed. The white silk mask she held did not hide her flaming cheeks or the sharpness of her light blue gaze. “Of course not,” she said angrily.

  “You must learn to take light teasing, my dear. I did not mean to be harsh.”

  “I’m sorry. I am just so . . . so worried!”

  “Where is your mother?” Emily, maskless, surveyed the crowd. She was sure whatever she chose to wear, Lady van Hoffen would stand out. Once she had arrived at a masquerade in a dress that exposed her rouged nipples, as though she was at a Cyprian’s ball. She had not stayed long and not everyone had seen her, but it had caused a stir and a scandal. Masquerades were a special opportunity for plain Maisie Taylor, as she had been before her marriage, a third-rate opera dancer who had caught herself a European title. Now over forty she still dressed to attract the most prurient of notice and had become notorious for the transparency of her dresses and her aversion to undergarments.

  “She has not arrived yet.” Grishelda’s voice was tight and controlled, but her eyes gave away her anguish.

  “What is she wearing?” Emily asked with trepidation.

  She sighed and shook her head. “She heard that in some ancient cultures women exposed their bosom. I tried to tell her that she would mortally offend the LaCoursieres and probably everyone else, too, and that she was on the border of disgracing herself to the point that she would not be acceptable in polite society anymore. She would look the veriest whore! The LaCoursieres would have every right to have her physically removed from their presence, did she insult them that way. But Captain Dempster was encouraging her and she would do anything to keep his interest. I will die of mortification if she follows through with her threat.”

  “Your mother is not a complete fool, Grishelda, I—”

  Agitated, the girl moved her hands, cutting off Emily’s speech. “Will you call me May, Emily? It is the name I prefer, my second name. I despise my first name!”

  Wishing that the girl would regain some of her usual calmness, Emily said in a soothing tone, “May, then. My dear, your mother is not a complete fool and always manages to just skirt banishment. Even she must know, deep down, that such a costume would see her barred from society forever.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Ah, here comes Etienne with some refreshments.”

  May’s pale blue eyes widened and she made an inarticulate noise of fear in her throat. “I will speak to you when my mother arrives,” she said hurriedly, and then glided away at a brisk pace.

  • • •

  May moved rapidly through the crowd, away from Emily and the encroaching Etienne Marchant. She could not bear to be near that man! She had met him just once but the mocking light in his dark eyes and the warmth of his touch unnerved her. He had gazed at her with a keen and knowing look that had risen a blush in her cheek as no other ever had. He had seemed to delight in upsetting her, though she had schooled herself to be proof against any kind of seductiveness. She had been an heiress too long not to know what men really wanted.

  But he pierced her well-guarded armor. She felt as if he knew all of her secrets, all of the hidden wickedness and vice that she felt she bore within her. She flitted through the crowd looking for a place to rest away from the impertinent vicomte. This was not an event to enjoy, but to endure. Pray to God her mother did not disgrace herself this time.

  The evening seemed interminable. She had arrived with some unexceptional friends who resided near her home. Sir Tolliver Gowan and Lady Gowan were a young and lively couple who persisted in trying to find her a husband even after her emphatic statement that she did not want one. As a result she did not accept many of their invitations, since they invariably had some young Lord Something-or-other or Mr. Whosis they wanted to foist on her. But tonight it had suited her not to arrive with her mother. Their invitation had been timely.

  So through the evening she stayed by Jenny, Lady Gowan, who was visibly with child and did not dance, while Sir Tolliver retired to the card room. She saw Emily, Lady Sedgely
, dance with the Vicomte Etienne Marchant. He had seemed possessive of her, from what May had observed. Whispers had been circulating that she and the young Frenchman were lovers, but May did not believe much in gossip.

  Although . . . how could Emily resist him, if he bent his efforts on seducing her? He was the handsomest man May had ever seen—dark, expressive eyes, wavy, thick hair, and a body that was powerful—and yet it was not her business to be looking at him that way. She flushed at her own thoughts.

  A young footman in the LaCoursiere livery of blue and silver bowed before her. “Lady Grishelda May van Hoffen? I have for you the message.” He proffered a silver tray.

  May, her heart pounding, took the note. An unfamiliar hand had written: Meet me in the conservatory and I will tell you something to your benefit.

  Would Lady Sedgely write such a note? She looked up and glanced around the large, glittering room. The orchestra played a cotillion dance and she caught sight of Emily. She looked questioningly at the marchioness as she was whirled around on the arm of a new gentleman. Emily nodded and smiled.

  That must be the sign.

  May wondered what her mother had said. There must be some news if Emily wanted to meet her in the conservatory, somewhere so private and deserted. Maybe her mother had been made to understand Captain Dempster’s machinations. She stood and looked anxiously around. The cotillion was almost over and she did not want to be seen disappearing with Emily; it would look peculiar.

  She murmured to Lady Gowan that she was going to the ladies’ withdrawing room to cool down from the heat of the ballroom and drifted away in that direction. Once out of sight of her friend she moved through the crowd and tried to think where the conservatory was in this vast mausoleum of a mansion. By London standards it was very large. The LaCoursieres had always maintained a London residence and thus had had a place to go during the Terror. They had become vintners and distillers of extraordinary fruit-based wines and liqueurs in the more than twenty years since then and had made their fortune many times over from the English starvation for French wine and brandy during the war.