by Julia Donner
Showers accompanied him when Gordon went to give directions on what he wanted done with the suite of rooms that had been emptied of Mr. Abercrombie and his belongings. He’d endured five meetings with the man, quite the most stultifying and tedious person Gordon had ever encountered, but Abercrombie was trustworthy. This was corroborated by many even more trustworthy people of his father’s acquaintance and was undoubtedly the reason Mr. and Mrs. Primrose entrusted the care of their child to the worthy but the most crashingly boring fellow Gordon had ever met.
After establishing that Miss Primrose had gone out early with her friend, Miss Percival—he couldn’t imagine two more opposite personalities—and that she wasn’t expected to return until evening, Gordon sent Showers to fetch the room keys from Mrs. Grant, the housekeeper, who was too busy at the moment to provide escort. Showers assured her that they needed no escort. Houses in this neighborhood were built along the same lines, the interiors similarly laid out, if not identical.
Gordon strolled around the master suite while Showers did a more thorough study. The attached dressing-room was small but would do. He went through and entered what would become his wife’s bedchamber, looked in on the adjoining sitting-room, and went out the door to the corridor. It was there that he noticed a parcel propped against a door at the end of the passageway.
He sauntered toward it, noting that the carpet needed replacing. He bent over to read his intended’s name scrawled on the wrapping paper. No franking marks. It had to have been hand delivered. He tried the door. Locked. He’d found the where but not the what of his ulterior motive for this visit.
Going back to the master bedchamber, he said to Showers, “I need the keys for a moment.”
“Certainly, sir. While you are here, do you wish to keep the present furnishings?”
“Might as well, for the time being. Boring but functional. Have the bedding in both rooms replaced. Eventually the draperies will have to go. Never much cared for the color of dirt. And now that I think on it, hire someone to handle the finances. You will have more than enough to keep you occupied as major domo.”
“As you wish, sir. I should like to see the cellars before we leave. We must assume that Mr. Abercrombie will take with him whatever he had laid down.”
“Will you need the keys to get in?”
“No, Mrs. Grant said that all the rooms were left unlocked.”
Showers provided this information with eyebrows raised in silent inquiry as to the reason the master of the house had need of the keys. Gordon ignored his peremptory expression and held out his hand. There was no reason for Showers to know that the bridegroom required answers and clarification of secrets surrounding his sneaky bride-to-be.
Showers dropped them into his palm and persisted in a bland tone that didn’t fool Gordon. “One must assume that you had no plans to visit with Miss Primrose in person today.”
“How astute. Absolutely on the mark, as usual, Showers. She told me that this was the day she and a friend would spend browsing for bride clothes. I expect she won’t return until dinner. You know how women are when they enter a bazaar. Lost to all time constraints.”
Showers turned away to open and peer into a bureau drawer. “Just so, sir.”
“I believe we are done here. Have a look-see at the cellars. I’ll meet you in the lobby in say, twenty minutes?”
He smiled at his manservant’s back as Showers descended the steps. The instant the valet-soon-to-be-butler’s head disappeared, he pivoted and headed back to the locked room. He carefully set aside the package, leaving it outside propped against the wall, unlocked and entered the room, Adele Primrose’s inner sanctum.
Nothing spurious or intriguing leapt out to meet his swift perusal. He felt foolish for expecting something extraordinary. It was a typical lady’s sitting-room with a sturdy desk, couch, a few chairs and tall west-facing windows—unexceptionable décor with plenty of light. A smallish bedroom could be seen on the other side of the room. Down the hallway, the bedchamber attached to the one he was moving into, and meant for his wife, was much larger and grander, but not as comfy.
He crossed to the dressing room and looked around. A narrow wardrobe stood open. It held a single item, a rather shabby robe. There was nothing on the top of the writing desk other than inkstand, inkwell, and a quill that needed sharpening. That meant she’d been writing recently. When he tried them, all the drawers were locked.
He went to the dressing-room and hunted, finding two hairpins. He used both, having not lost skills he’d mastered as a boy. He got one drawer to open, the long one at the top, just under the writing surface. It turned out that he’d picked the right one first try. After withdrawing its shocking contents, he sank down hard on the desk chair. So many emotions and thoughts roared through his mind that he couldn’t decipher what he wanted to do first—shake, shout, or throttle his intended.
He flipped open the age-dried pages with shaking hands, an ancient work known as the Kama Sutra. He’d seen a copy of it once before, when his friends at university had gifted him for his many academic distinctions with an expensive courtesan. At the time, they had considered him an outrageous prude, a shameful, remedial condition that required immediate fixing.
A single evening with Madame Charlotte, who had a partial manuscript copy, left him cured of prudery, and he never looked back. The problem then became one of seeking out and administering repeated cures. The illustrations in the book had sparked an addictive fascination with his unattended sexuality—an aspect of his life left previously and largely un-mined. Prior to his introduction to Madame and her arts, he’d suppressed any sort of carnality out of fear of and profound respect for his illustrious father. It occurred to him that his father had to have indulged at least once in the forbidden activity. He existed, after all, and realizing that, felt an utter fool.
The first night of his introduction to Madame, she asked him to choose a position of interest from the manuscript. From then on, he’d saved every scrap of his allowance, and even gambled, to get back to his hastily made goal of trying every position. He became so absorbed in the exotic work that he found a fellow student to translate the narrative. He didn’t let the fact that it was actually a book that had more to do with achieving a better life path than merely sexual play spoil his dedication to mastering its instructive sexual usages. After dipping his toe into that particular pond, his youth and inexperience urged him to dive headlong into the sensual waters to make up for lost time.
He went back to the drawer search and confirmed his concern that there might be worse to come. The papers he found tucked underneath the Indian manuscript bothered him more. It was one thing for a person to foster a fascination with sex. In his opinion, that came naturally. Women, unless of the lascivious or professional sort, shouldn’t have reason to read such lurid content, instructively functional or not. And it was another matter entirely when that female, his future wife, was writing and publishing novels specifically about sexual escapades.
Perspiration gathered on his brow as he scanned the vellum sheets inked with precision and care. The content went beyond incendiary. There was a reason much of the writing of this nature came out of France. But this was scripted in English, the content enough to make him stand and readjust his pantaloons, and written by none other than the Scarlet Lady, otherwise known as Miss Adele Primrose. Lord, what if his father found out?
A glance at the ormolu clock on the desk corner warned him that he had only five minutes left to get everything back in place, the drawer shut and door relocked. He went swiftly down the stairs, his mind a whirl with implications. This discovery was going to take careful thought. There was the irony that his father thought Miss Primrose a perfect choice for a wife, wealthy, self-effacing and straight-laced—a huge dose of irony came loaded within that assumption. Miss Prim was anything and everything other than what his father supposed, but contracts had been signed, announcements and arrangements made, which made worming out of the marriage difficult, if
not legally impossible.
Then there was his own point of view on this terrifying yet provocative discovery. He was about to marry a too clever female who always seemed to stay one step ahead of his thinking. But soon he would wield the meaty club that was handed carte blanche to husbands, the powerful curb of the law to correct such inappropriate behaviors. He was honest enough with himself that he could never bring himself to use that kind of coercion or abuse. As much as he abhorred the notion of his wife involved in activities that might bring about even the barest hint of scandal, the more adventurous side of his nature demanded to know if she had tried out any of the illustrations. And if she hadn’t, would she?
Chapter 12
The arrival of her wedding day felt unreal. Adele watched in the mirror as Enid used a brush to arrange curls over her forehead and tendrils on her neck. In the past, she never let her hair grow over long. There was so much of it that the weight became distracting and annoying. She usually had Enid braid it into a single plait, pin it down and out of the way under a tight-fitting cap. Then yesterday, for some illogical reason, she told Enid to cut it off. A strange sort of panic quivered inside when she saw the pile of tresses on the floor. Why had she done something so drastic?
With her hair shorn, she discovered it acted rather wildly from a natural wave. After the shock of shearing, it hadn’t curled at all until this morning. Enid brushed out the snarls then put away the not needed curling tongs. A wash and a rinse with a concoction Enid had made up brought glints of blond in the light brown. The shorter style made her eyes look huge. And far too expressive, revealing the anxiety that had started to grow and consume.
Enid wore a too pleased smile as she fiddled to get the mop to behave. Three weeks had passed since the newspapers confirmed the wedding date and the smug humor had never left the girl’s face. After all, her mistress would one day become Lady Treadwell when Sir Charles, baronet, went to his reward.
Although Adele had no concerns about how she was perceived by Society, the Treadwell family made their concern for such matters evident. She decided to make the extra effort to not embarrass them. She’d trudged from one draper to the next until settling on a becoming peach silk, then arranged for a fitting with one of the better dressmakers. A milliner, glove-maker and cobbler had been given matching colors and fabrics. The results were satisfactory, if the appreciation on her bridegroom’s face this morning was any indication. But her bonnet adorned with pale orange and pink silk roses had a veiled bonnet that hid the fact she’d been sheared like a sheep.
That strange flutter started up again as she looked at Gordon Treadwell waiting for her at the end of the aisle. He wore a coat the color of burnt sienna. How had he known that it was one of her favorites? His dashing waistcoat exactly matched the color of her gown, but nothing compared to his smile, dazzling as the morning sunlight streaming through the windows.
It wasn’t until this moment that she had fully comprehended the steps she was taking, literally and physically, with this marriage. In her haste to find privacy to live the life she wished and remove the Abercrombies from her sphere, she hadn’t given thought to anything but having the freedom to pursue her interests without interference.
Her heart began to thump. Why hadn’t she considered this before? She hadn’t given a moment’s thought to the handsome gentleman about to be her husband. In her heart she knew that no one, with the exception of God above, would ever be her lord and master. Certainly not this fallible creature touted for his hedonistic habits and sporting exploits. Anyone seeing that smile would think he was the happiest man on the planet, not a fellow forced into marriage with a tepid-looking spinster. Would he keep his promises? Had she exchanged one barrier to her pursuits for another? In minutes, he would have complete control of her and her life.
She forced herself to think of something other than the overwhelming desire to run from the church, back to her safe bedchamber and hide under the bedcovers. But that familiar refuge was no longer available, since everything but her desk had been moved to Vera’s bedroom, and it was attached to the one where her husband would sleep.
For one thing, it was too late now to back down. And for another, a terrible, irresistible yen had taken over her traitorous body. After months of exposure to the Kama Sutra, she deeply wanted to know what it was like to make love with the gorgeous specimen she was about to marry. He had better be worth the risk.
Marriage was a thing she had contemplated over the years, never expecting to be asked by a gentleman as handsome and virile as Gordon Treadwell. He could have passed for a twin of his famous cousin, a man known for his salacious appetites. But there was no sign of Lord Byron’s unwholesome character in her bridegroom. His reputation centered on overindulgence in daring play. He was touted for a sense of humor when his temper didn’t get provoked. Even so, she didn’t fear him in any way. Not very much anyway. Unless she lingered on the way he made her feel with merely a kiss. That was a bit terrifying in its force and rule of her body. Somehow she must find a way to protect her heart. He had a cunning way about him, somehow endearing and at the same time overwhelming.
There were few family members and friends in the pews to represent her. Cousin Vera sat alone, waiting for her husband, who acted as Adele’s escort. Annabelle attended with her parents. A few servants sat with Enid, but all in all, a rather sparse showing. Gordon’s family and friends were numerous. She’d met Sir Charles two weeks ago, learned that Gordon was an only child born late in the marriage, and that his mother had passed away the year before from a lung inflammation.
A gentle tug on a heart she thought inured to sentiment occurred when Sir Charles stepped out of his pew and took her hand from Cousin George. He smiled warmly and bowed over her hand, which he extended to his son. She noticed during this distinction that Gordon looked down to hide his reaction and kept his expression passive as the vows were exchanged.
Having the knot tied, documents signed, blessings given, they made their way down the aisle and out of the church. Flower petals floated in the air. A few guests had remained to greet them on the steps, while others had gone on ahead to the wedding breakfast.
At the beribboned barouche, she was introduced to Gordon’s friends, whom she liked, but had met before during previous Seasons. She remembered them. They pretended to remember her, which distracted her from thinking about the fact that she had agreed to her husband’s conditions. Would he honor hers? He wouldn’t if he found out what she wrote behind locked doors. Perhaps it would be wise to change the locks to her old sitting room, where he’d claimed himself amenable to her to use it as a private study.
The drive home was a lovely one, sun shining, perfect weather. They were met in the flower-festooned foyer of her—no, now their—house by a rotund, dignified fellow, Showers. Her new butler waved forward a footman to take her husband’s gloves and hat. Adele kept her bonnet on, as would most of the ladies attending the traditional after ceremony meal. Keeping hers in place would lend reassurance with ladies who did not wish to fuss with creased hair. It also delayed the surprise of the shock of her hair cut. How was her husband going to react to the dashing style?
Enid hovered to unfastened the snug-fitting spencer that matched her gown. The high waist and low-cut bodice revealed the fact that she did indeed have bosoms. She’d never before worn anything so well-made nor anything that exposed so much of her chest. Enid had tightened the stays until Adele squawked, fearing the constriction might bring on a faint during the ceremony. Perhaps she wouldn’t have complained—had she known ahead of time—that the results would ignite a glint in her husband’s eyes, a look that set her heart to pounding, as he escorted her into breakfast. She couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that tonight she would finally experience what she wrote about on the sly.
There was an heir to create. She knew, of course, exactly what was involved, having seen the illustrations in the fading manuscripts found in her father’s trunks. Before she became the Scarlet Lady, she�
��d talked at length to those versed in amative practices to provide her with specifics, an exact accounting. She certainly couldn’t ask the married ladies of her acquaintance. In order to write about such things, it was necessary to understand how it felt. Or didn’t feel. As she’d teased Annabelle about the saying of lying quietly and thinking king and country, she knew an unmarried female could not approach a lady of the beau monde to ask such questions.
A benefit of being set down as a wallflower and spinster was how people didn’t pay her attention. They spoke around her, men often ignored her completely. It was astonishing, often hurtful, but always informative. What she overheard while biding time behind a large, potted plant, were the names of favored courtesans. Carefully, and in disguise, she sought out others more skilled in the amative practices. Her charity work in the more unsavory sections of London brought her in contact with the street variety of prostitution but not the courtesan trade. That required a measure of secrecy, but for the most part, the women were quite helpful once a price had been established.
In order to cover a twinge of uneasiness—after all, he was looking at her as if she were a bon-bon—gratifying but also unsettling in the extreme. She turned to the butler, having met him briefly that morning and liking him instantly. He had an aloof manner, while at the same time Showers gave the impression he nurtured a naughty, humorous secret. Seeing him nearby, waiting for her instructions with a politely expectant expression, settled her nerves.
“Showers, is everything in hand? Do you have enough staff available?”
“Mrs. Grant is a most superior sort of housekeeper, ma’am. All one must do is rely on her and stand about looking efficient.”
“I do not think your rendition is quite on the mark. From everything that my husband has said, he made it abundantly clear that he could not do without you.”