Lord Satan

by Judith Laik

  He greeted the guests to the ball abstractedly, all the while picturing Elizabeth as he had last seen her. Her hair tumbling about her shoulders, the jacket of her riding habit partly undone, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of creamy flesh.

  He had carefully unfocused his gaze as he refastened her jacket. All the same, he had seen, could still see, the freckle on a curve of her breast exposed to his view. The memory had come to call at inopportune times in the past fortnight, causing an inconvenient reaction with each visitation. He yearned to expose every inch of flesh on Elizabeth Bishop’s body, and find all the freckles.

  If only she were not who she was, the daughter of a vicar, of good birth, virginal and untouchable. If she could have been of a lower class, a widow, or even a wife, someone he could make love to just once, then he could forget her. That last nearly made him laugh. No, once would not be enough, a thousand times would not be enough.

  He had waited until the advanced age of thirty-three to fall in love, and then it was with a woman he could never have, could only ruin if he even allowed his desire to show.

  Then she appeared, speaking to Jonathan and Sybille, offering her wishes for their happiness. In her gown of pale blue overlaid with some kind of nearly transparent silvery material, the virginal vanquished the temptress of his visions. Her hair, which outdoors in sunlight reflected golden lights, looked nearly pink in the soft glow of candles—a soft, angelic pink cloud.

  The previous, disarrayed version appeared, superimposed on the real one, and his body hardened in response to both Elizabeths. Ruthlessly he stamped down the impulse to step out of the receiving line, take her in his arms and kiss her breath away.

  Her complexion, as she approached Neil, almost matched her hair, and when she greeted him in a low voice, she did not fully meet his glance. He smiled, knowing she shared the same memory—and perhaps the same wish.

  “I’m glad you could be here tonight,” he said, hearing the echo of the words he had spoken at the first party the Coltons had hosted in Peasebotham.

  Her eyes widened, and a hint of smile tugged at her lips. She remembered, too, he would swear. He could sense the attunement of their minds.

  He gave his attention to Tom. Tonight he was going to dance with Miss Bishop. Tonight he would make one memory to store up against the lonely nights to come.

  He laid his campaign carefully.

  First he danced with the guest of honor, Sybille Bassett. Elizabeth’s hand was solicited by one of the farm boys. As Neil and Sybille moved through the figures, she gazed flirtatiously up at him. And then, while they waited out their turn, she asked, “Do you remember the night of the rout, when you refused to dance with me?”

  “I remember, but that is not precisely the truth. I was trying to protect you from being harmed by my tarnished reputation.”

  “You are making mock of me.” Sybille tapped his arm with her fan. “And does my reputation not concern you now?”

  “Now, you will find, as a betrothed woman, soon to be married, you have more freedom. Your credit will withstand being seen with me, especially in such a crowd.”

  She accepted his explanation, he saw, some of the pain smoothing out of her stance. Neil had recognized her hurt at the time, but he had to deal with her blatant attempt to set her cap for him. He was safe now, and she and Jonathan made a good match. The country-dance ended, and he brought her back to Mr. Bassett, who stood with Jonathan. He spoke with them awhile, wondering, as he often did these days, if Jonathan was the man attempting to kill Trevor. Neil could not entirely accept that possibility, but could not eliminate it, either.

  Perhaps, if Jonathan had previously thought only inheriting Trevor’s title and wealth could ease his financial distress, Mr. Bassett’s fortune now made such a drastic solution unnecessary.

  Neil did not relish the thought of Jonathan—if it were he—getting away unpunished, but if the attempts now stopped, and Trevor was safe from further attacks, it would be enough. Not that Trevor was safe, going back into battle. With a grimace, he forced aside the thought. He renewed his survey of the guests, then went to ask Mrs. Murray to dance.

  After Mrs. Murray, he danced with both Marble sisters, then a couple of farmers’ plain daughters, and spinsterish Miss Sidney. Without seeming to pay attention, he noticed Elizabeth was in demand, finding a partner for every dance.

  He had sufficiently masked his purpose, he decided. As the music struck up for another country-dance, he headed straight for Elizabeth. She stood with another farm lad—not Wat Perkins, Neil noted. In fact, although his parents were attending the ball, Neil had not seen young Perkins this evening.

  He bowed. “Will you dance with me, Miss Bishop.”

  She lit up, a dazzling smile flashing across her face and her entire presence assuming a glow. His knees almost gave way, followed instantly by a surge of power charging through him.

  “Oh, but,” Elizabeth cast a crestfallen look at the young swain beside her, “I am bespoke for this dance. Mr… .“

  “I’m sure he will excuse you, will you not?” Neil barely glanced at the boy, taking Elizabeth’s arm and leading her to the floor, hearing the dismayed exclamation behind him.

  As other couples joined the set, Elizabeth dispatched a resentful look his way. “That was high-handed of you.”

  He grinned. “How I’ve missed hearing you take me to task.”

  She glanced away, a blush spreading across her cheeks. The movements of the dance began. Elizabeth laid her hand upon his, insulated by the gloves they both wore, and glanced up at him, her expression full of doubt.

  He felt the warmth of her body next to his, not touching but close enough to touch should he shift just a little. He inhaled the light, flowery fragrance of her. Absorbed the sight of her sparkling blue eyes, the tendrils of red-pink hair curling against the graceful curve of neck, the slight ridges of her collarbones above the decorous bodice of her gown. The other curves, covered from his view, but not from his imagination.

  All at once Neil was grateful for the layers of leather and cloth that protected them from contact. He had never felt this close to losing his vaunted self-control. One touch of his skin to hers and he would ignite like a pile of dry brush. What a fool he was to play so dangerous a game. He would ruin everything he worked for, and only for a momentary indulgence that changed nothing.

  *

  Libbetty felt Lord Neil’s subtle withdrawal. They had merely started dancing—the realization of a long-held dream for her, and it began magically. Her heart pounded and her body heated and tingled to his proximity. He smiled at her with what she could have sworn was delight at being in her presence. What had she said or done to change matters between them so?

  “I saw you dance with Miss Bassett,” she essayed when they paused, searching for some reaction that might give her a clue.

  “I believe I danced with several ladies.” His lips twitched. Surely that indicated the subject was not painful?

  “I merely wondered, that is, whether you were disappointed at her betrothal to your cousin.”

  His smile grew more pronounced and he looked fully at her. “And you wonder if I am manfully trying to hide my broken heart. No, Miss Bishop, I think Jonathan and Sybille are well matched, and my own feelings were not in the least engaged in her.”

  “Good. I mean,” she felt her blush appear again, “I am glad you didn’t suffer any disappointment.”

  They became the active couple in the dance again, offering no further opening for conversation. As they moved through the figures, Libbetty frantically sought for some topic that would engage him again and keep him by her side when the dance ended.

  When they reached the other end of the set and again stood out, she said, “Have you been back to call upon Mrs. Marble?”

  “In fact, I girded up my courage and did so just the other day. I had promised, you know, and could not like to think I had failed in my duty.” Lord Neil’s smile invited her to share in his self-deprecation. “My k
nees quaked, let me tell you. I was afraid she would mistake me for her son again and whisk me up to bed without my supper for staying gone so long. As it happened, though, she was in a very different humor. She didn’t recognize me at all, either as her son or as my own self.”

  “The poor old lady,” Libbetty murmured. “Miss Anemone told me that it was losing both her husband and her son that caused her mind to become disordered. She does have days when she is quite rational, but they happen less frequently as time passes.”

  “Ah, Elizabeth, how you put me to the blush, with your kind heart and refusal to say a mean thing about another person.”

  “Oh, but I never meant to imply you said anything mean. You were making a joke at your own expense, I believe.”

  “It was my intent, but it echoes in my own ears as mocking an unfortunate old person.”

  They joined the dance again at this point, to Libbetty’s distress. She again had blundered, saying words that seemed to criticize when she only wanted to prolong their conversation.

  The music was drawing to a close, and she feared she would have no further chance to speak to Lord Neil privately. She wanted to apologize for times she had practically accused him of attempting his nephew’s life. The dance ended, and he led her back to Mrs. Hayes, and bowed, thanking Libbetty formally.

  He was gone. He didn’t leave the room, however. Libbetty watched as closely as she could, called back into the dancing by her next partner. Lord Neil asked another woman to join him in the set. Libbetty decided if he disappeared from the ball, she would go in search of him. She had to have one last private conversation with him.

  He gave her no opportunity to do so. In contrast to the rout, where he had scarcely danced, he took the floor with every set this evening. He danced the supper dance with Irene Bassett, and stayed with her, Sybille, and Jonathan during supper. Later, he danced with Mrs. Hayes, and they conversed animatedly.

  Jonathan Colton requested a dance of her, and she belatedly recalled her intention to investigate whether he was the person behind the attempts on Lord Cauldreigh’s life.

  Unfortunately, the dance was a fast contra, which gave Libbetty no chance to question him. When it was over, she said, “I am perishing of thirst.”

  He politely offered to bring her lemonade. Thanking him, she accompanied him to the table where drinks were set out. “Were you close to Lord Cauldreigh while growing up, Mr. Colton?”

  He handed a glass to her and took one for himself. “No, I am actually of the same generation as Lord Neil and his older brother, Lord Cauldreigh’s father, although younger—several years so compared to Lord Tipton and only a few to Lord Neil.”

  “Then you were friends with Lord Neil.” She sipped from her glass.

  “I scarcely saw any of them, Miss Bishop. Our fathers had quarreled, so our families had no congress with each other until I was grown and sought out Lord Neil to repair the rift. Tipton was already dead by then, and Cauldreigh still a boy living at his aunt’s.” He finished his glass in several long swallows. “Are you ready to return to Mrs. Hayes’ side?”

  She had not learned what she wished. He said he was the one to hold out the olive branch, for what that was worth. It might merely have meant that he wished to exploit the wealthier status of the other side of his family. Or he might have genuine family feelings which would prevent his attempting to harm a cousin.

  There was nothing of further interest to Libbetty in the party. She was asked to dance by Lord Cauldreigh, Mr. Murray, and several other young men. Always, she paid her partners what attention necessary for politeness while watching Lord Neil. Don’t think of being disappointed. You knew he would not suddenly change and want to be with you. Just one dance with him is beyond what you dreamed. Such bracing sentiments did not raise her from her depression.

  Any day now, he would be leaving, and she could do nothing.

  *

  The next day, Freddy and George went out on still another boys-only excursion, Alonso accompanied his father on his calls, and Catherine asked Mrs. Berkfield to show her how to bake her celebrated almond tarts. As Tom had not taken Concobhar, Libbetty decided to ride. She carefully headed a different direction than The Castle or the abhorrent woodsman’s hut.

  Riding farther afield than usual, she passed by Rose Farm. With a sudden thought of the similarity between the names Whitelow and the mysterious “White” who worked for Mr. Hedgesett, she rode up the drive leading to the house. She tied Concobhar’s reins to a tree and knocked at the door. Mrs. Whitelow herself answered. “Miss Bishop, is it not? How nice of you to call. Won’t you please come in and take tea with me?”

  A manservant came and took Concobhar to the stable, and Mrs. Whitelow led Libbetty into a small, tidy saloon.

  She surveyed the room, regretting the impulse that had made her call but interested nonetheless. The saloon showed unmistakable signs of its owner’s prosperity, yet Libbetty found the effect slightly garish. Fine Persian carpets in shades of deep red covered the floor. Several paintings, still lifes and landscapes, adorned paneled walls painted a soft rose. The furnishings appeared comfortable and new.

  Mrs. Whitelow summoned a maid and ordered her to bring tea, then said, “Please sit down, Miss Bishop,” indicating a settee upholstered in rose chintz.

  Libbetty complied, already regretting her impulsive act.

  Mrs. Whitelow wore a white muslin gown embroidered with red roses. Her chestnut curls showed under a white lace cap. The older woman fluttered about, talking of trivial matters.

  It would distress her mother if she knew Libbetty sat with the notorious owner of Rose Farm. The Coltons, as well, would feel betrayed to see her here—Lord Neil especially had made his contempt and hatred for Mrs. Whitelow plain. Oh, dear, she must not think of him.

  The servant returned, bearing a silver tea tray and a plate of biscuits, which she placed on a mahogany circular table. For the next few minutes Mrs. Whitelow occupied herself with pouring tea and offering biscuits, seated at one of several oval-backed armchairs upholstered in red damask.

  Libbetty sipped her tea and gazed about the room. A mahogany hanging cabinet displayed expensive porcelain bibelots.

  Mrs. Whitelow said, “I did not know if you would speak to me. I feared after we met at Sidneys’ several weeks ago, your mother would have forbidden you my company.”

  Libbetty set her saucer down hard, slopping tea. “I believe she never thought to do so, because she did not foresee such an occasion,” she was surprised into saying.

  “That is an honest answer, at least,” the widow said. “I have been lonely since I returned to Peasebotham. In America I had gained respect, married to a wealthy man. We entertained—oh, their names would mean nothing to you—but notable people in Charleston. Here, I am the wicked woman who led Tipton astray. Do you know, I was around your age when I eloped with him?”

  “I will be eighteen soon,” Libbetty volunteered.

  “See? I was seventeen when he seduced me away from my family and home. I think, Miss Bishop, that you and I have something else in common. I believe you have some knowledge that Colton men lead women astray, not the other way around.”

  “Whatever makes you think that?” Did she bear some outer sign that she was at peril of ruin? Mrs. Whitelow could scarcely have seen her with Lord Neil enough to realize Libbetty’s feelings for him. Mrs. Dalrymple had given her a similar warning, and also Captain Forsyth.

  “Are you not close to Lord Cauldreigh? He is very like his father in looks and, I must believe, in behavior also.”

  Libbetty burst into laughter, relieved that Mrs. Whitelow had so mistaken which Colton man endangered her. “Oh, no, there is nothing between us. He enjoyed a flirtation with me this past summer, but he only thought of passing the time until he could go back to his regiment.”

  “He never offered marriage to you?”

  “Far from it; he made it clear that he had no plans for marriage for some time yet.”

  Mrs. Whitelow smil
ed, a smile that made Libbetty uneasy; in fact with proximity to the notorious woman came an increase in her feeling of disloyalty to everyone who meant anything to her. Before she could form the words to take her leave, a man rushed precipitously into the room.

  He paused when he caught sight of Libbetty, saying, “Excuse me, Aunt Maude, I didn’t realize you had company.”

  Mrs. Whitelow had paled upon his entrance, and her saucer shook in her hand, but she pulled herself together. “Oh, my dear, how you startled me. I have told you my nerves are sensitive, and I cannot stand your being so—so impetuous. Miss Bishop, this is my late husband’s nephew, Mr. Owen Whitelow. Owen, Miss Bishop, the vicar’s daughter.”

  “How d’you do, er, Miss Bishop,” said the young man perfunctorily. He passed by the tea tray and took a biscuit before throwing himself into a chair some distance away from where Libbetty sat. “Aunt Maude, how d’you expect me to drink this cat-lap? I need some ale to quench my thirst.”

  Mrs. Whitelow jumped up, saying, “I will tell Molly to bring you some,” and left the room.

  Libbetty had not previously heard that Mrs. Whitelow had brought any relatives with her to Rose Farm. Her curiosity aroused, she forgot her intention to leave. Could this young man possibly be the mysterious White?

  Owen leaned forward in his chair and scrutinized Libbetty. “How came you to call, Miss Bishop? My aunt has found the ladies of Peasebotham disinclined to recognize her before now.”

  As Libbetty struggled with an answer to this, Mrs. Whitelow returned. Smiling at Owen Whitelow, she said, “Molly will bring the ale shortly.”

  She seated herself and smiled at Libbetty. “Tell me, Miss Bishop, do you have a beau? Oh, you must think that a foolish question. A pretty girl like you no doubt has several young men courting her.”

  “No, I don’t have anyone.” Heat rushed to her face.

  Owen laughed. “That pays you out for being so inquisitive, Aunt Maude. Why should the girl tell you about her suitors? It probably brings bad luck to talk about them before they come to the point, doesn’t it, Miss Bishop?”