Rumors That Ruined a Lady

by Marguerite Kaye

  Caro slid on to the floor beside him. ‘Not your words, but perfect.’

  ‘I can’t offer you marriage, my love, but you can have my heart, I offer it willingly.’

  She scanned his face anxiously. ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Are you? It will be a rocky road to travel, if we choose to embark on it. The obstacles we discussed are very real. They may never be overcome. But at least we will travel the road together.’

  She was under no illusions. There would be times when it would seem impossible, times when guilt would overwhelm her. There would no doubt be times when she would be overcome with homesickness for they would almost certainly have to flee England. But there would not be a time when she would be as miserable as she had been these last weeks, without him. Caro smiled softly. ‘I could survive without you, but I could never be happy. Let me live with you and be your love, Sebastian. I will take a chance on happiness if you will.’

  ‘I love you so much, Caro.’

  His kiss was sweet, but she was not in the mood for sweetness. ‘“And we will all the pleasures prove,”’ she murmured.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That is the next line of the poem. Do you think we shall?’ she asked wickedly.

  ‘Of that, my love, I have no doubt at all.’

  He caught her up in his arms, pulling her on top of him, kissing her wildly. His body was hard beneath hers, just as she remembered. He kissed her passionately, his hands stroking down her back, cupping her bottom, holding her fast against him, kissing her.

  She shuddered. Her nipples hardened. ‘I was only teasing,’ she said in an anguished tone. ‘We cannot possibly—my aunt...’

  ‘Ah yes, your aunt.’ Sebastian rolled over, jumping to his feet. ‘You are quite right to remind me, I have no desire whatsoever to be interrupted,’ he said, turning the key firmly in the library door before rejoining her on the hearth rug. ‘Where were we?’

  He kissed her. A deep, passionate kiss that sent her senses spinning. Still kissing, he quickly rid himself of his jacket and waistcoat, boots and breeches. Still kissing, he pushed up her skirts and removed her undergarments. ‘Much as I would love to see you naked, I think it would be prudent not to undress completely, just in case your aunt sends one of her ancient retainers in search of us,’ he murmured. ‘We would not like to be the cause of her butler’s apoplexy and subsequent untimely demise.’

  Caro giggled. ‘Nor my aunt’s! Sebastian, don’t you think we should...’

  ‘Stop? Certainly not. You know what they say, Caro. Once a rake!’ Still kissing, they touched, stroked, becoming feverish, heated, in moments. Still kissing, wildly kissing, he rolled her underneath him. His erection jutted up towards her belly. She touched him in wonder, wrapped her legs around his waist, and cried out as he entered her. Fast and furious, they clutched and kissed and thrust and pulsed, to a climax that caught them suddenly, leaving them shuddering, panting. And sated.

  The future would have to wait, but at least the prospect existed when none had before. And that would do very well for now.

  Epilogue

  Crag Hall—December 1831

  My Dearest Son,

  I trust this finds you and darling Caro well—which is a silly thing to say, for I doubt I have ever met a happier and more contented couple. I am writing this in the library, where myself and Mrs Keith have just finished hanging the new curtains. Please tell Caro that the colour she settled upon is absolutely perfect, it has quite transformed the room. Outside it has just begun to snow. My first winter in England in more years than I care to count, thanks to your exceedingly kind offer, and it is even more beautiful than I remember. Though I hope the snow does not fall too thickly, for my sister Agatha—one of your newly discovered aunts!—is expected at any moment. I trust you are comfortable in my little Italian home and enjoying more clement weather.

  I am actually the bearer of glad tidings. You will recall from my last letter that I suggested there might be a possible mechanism to free Caro from her marriage and, more importantly, open up the possibility of your marrying—something I know would mean everything to you both. As I explained, I was made aware of its existence during the negotiations surrounding my own separation from your father. It was never a viable option for me since your existence somewhat disproved the grounds, but it occurred to me that Rider might be more amenable to an annulment since he also has something to gain. Therefore, as you suggested, I consulted with Lord Armstrong upon the subject.

  He was, as Caro herself predicted, somewhat reluctant to enthuse over a proposal which did not originate from himself, but by the end of our meeting, he had quite persuaded himself it was his own idea, and has promised to pull every one of the many diplomatic strings to which he has access in order to expedite the matter. There remains, naturally, the issue of persuading Sir Grahame to swear the marriage was not consummated before it can be placed before the Consistory Court, but Lord Armstrong is of the opinion that Sir Grahame’s desire to remarry in order to produce an heir will overcome any scruples he may have about this. It is not, his lordship assures me, a matter of lying, but merely of adjusting the truth! All being well, my dear son, Caro may be free to marry you in the summer.

  It would seem that Lord Armstrong is already pulling strings in our favour, for I have, you will be surprised to learn, had several morning callers. Sir Timothy Innellan arrived sporting a most magnificent beard—is this a new fashion? He had his mother in tow, a snob of the first rank with a vastly inflated notion of her own consequence. I remember her from my salad days, but I smiled most politely and gave her tea and pretended, as she did, that it was the first time we had met. Lady Armstrong, Caro’s stepmother, also called, with the sweetest little girl. She was most insistent that I pass on her warmest regards—and from what Caro has told me of her stepmother, I know that will make you both smile.

  I will close now, my dear boy, for my sister is due to arrive at any moment. I enclose a note from Lady Sophia to Caro. Her aunt is resting upstairs. She is over the worst of her head cold, but is still rather weak. I imagine you and Caro reading this letter together, sitting in my lovely south-facing salon looking out over the lemon trees. I very much look forward to being reunited with you both when I return to my little house in Florence in the spring.

  In the meantime, I kiss you both.

  * * * * *

  Historical Note

  In England, up until the end of the 19th Century, as Lawrence Stone informs us in his excellent book Uncertain Union and Broken Lives, marriage was second only to inheritance as a method for the transfer of property. As a consequence, litigation about marriage was in reality litigation about property.

  Until the Married Woman’s Property Act was passed, a wife could not own any property in her own right. In effect, marriage made her the property of her husband, to do with as he saw fit. He was responsible for her upkeep (so she could, as Caro does, run up reasonable debts if he refused to keep her), but he could also force her to return to live under the marital roof if she deserted him and he could, as Caro’s husband does, beat her (to a degree!) with impunity. There are some particularly heart-rending cases cited by Lawrence. The law, as Caro points out in my story, was very much weighted in favour of the man, and also, as her husband states, very much weighted in favour of keeping marriages intact, no matter how unhappy the relationship.

  The options open to couples in the Regency period to dissolve a marriage, particularly where property was involved, were limited. They could agree on a formal separation, which gave the wife entitlement to alimony (aliment in Scotland) provided she signed away her right to incur debts in her husband’s name. Children (as property of the marriage) almost invariably remained with the husband, no matter whether or not his behaviour contributed to the marital breakdown.

  Suing for ‘criminal conversation’, a common law proce
dure in England, also stemmed from the notion that a wife is her husband’s property, making her lover guilty of trespass. While some husbands sued purely to avenge themselves on their adulterous wives, and some were more interested in the damages awarded as a result of a successful suit, many crim. con. cases were the necessary prelude to a parliamentary divorce. They were quite often what Lawrence calls ‘collusive’, the husband and wife in cahoots in order to obtain a legal separation. The wife, with a paid paramour and two paid ‘reliable’ witnesses, are conveniently discovered in some sort of pre-arranged flagrante which can then be cited as evidence in the separation case.

  Once criminal conversation has been proven, the next stage in dissolving a marriage was for the husband to apply for legal separation in an ecclesiastical court. Assuming this was successful, he could then take the final step of applying for a private Act of Parliament, which would finalise the divorce and in some, but not all cases (it very much depended upon the value of property at stake) win the right to remarry. This was an expensive and very long, drawn-out procedure, with as few as four or five cases a year succeeding. And, it is worth noting, it was a procedure which very much favoured the husband. Rare indeed was it for a wife to be permitted to remarry. It was far more likely, even in collusive cases, for the wife to be given a pittance to live on and packed off abroad.

  Adultery was not the only grounds for separation and divorce, but it was the most straight-forward, and hence it was the most utilised. Sadly, because of the legal quirk which required wives to prove two grounds (such as adultery and cruelty) it meant that in the vast majority of cases, the ‘blame’ (and the law required there to be a guilty party) was placed upon the wife—even where the husband was equally guilty, and even in cases when the wife was actually innocent! Women who had left their husbands, separated from them, or, worst of all, who had been divorced from their husbands, were stigmatised, ostracised, usually permitted no contact with their children and families, and were, I would guess, pretty miserable. The pressure on couples to remain together cannot be over-emphasised, which makes those like Caro who refused to succumb extremely brave women indeed, in my view.

  A final word on annulment. It was late on in my research, when I was desperately trying to find some hope of a happy ending for Caro and Sebastian, that I remembered the case of John Ruskin and Effie Gray. Without going into the scurrilous details, the marriage was declared null on the grounds of non-consummation. Digging a little deeper into this process, which was the province of the ecclesiastical courts, I discovered several dubious cases where non-consummation was conveniently proved. Since it resulted in the marriage being declared null and void, and granted both parties the freedom to remarry, as you can imagine, it was an attractive option for desperate couples with money and access to influential contacts who were willing to twist the truth under oath.

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  ISBN-13: 9781460321508

  RUMORS THAT RUINED A LADY

  Copyright © 2013 by Marguerite Kaye

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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