Decidedly she needed all the encouragement she could get. “Here are the facts,” she said, and, over the rabbit-like racing of her own heart, managed an account of the will and the hope for an heir—a legitimate heir, of course, as the unseemly truth was better kept secret—and the consequences if that hope failed. The bit about Mr. James Russell was news to no one. Mrs. Kearney, the housekeeper, had obviously made his infamy known.
“This was years ago, mind, and I have no evidence he continues so corrupt.” Her pulse beat strongly still, but steadily. More like a running horse than a bolting rabbit. “If he has reformed, then perhaps I wrong him.” She set down her tea and spread her fingers on the white damask tablecloth, leaning forward. “So be it. I will take that risk, before I will risk the safety of any of you by leaving you ignorant of the facts. So I tell you.” She looked from face to face to face. “Because if I were one of you, I would want to be told.”
What an odd sensation: like the little fountain of sparks that went up when a stick broke in the grate. Something—who could say what?—seemed to have broken in the middle of her, and those sparks went charging all through her blood, warming her limbs and bringing color to her face. “What to do hereafter is your choice.” The words came now as though she’d waited all her life to say them. “If you wish to seek a new situation at once, I’ll give you a character and whatever other help I can. If you’d rather wait until the question of an heir comes to some resolution, I’ll inform you as soon as I know any more of that matter. You have my promise, in either case, that I’ll do everything in my power to prevent your falling victim to such a man.”
If only everything in my power could have taken some grander shape! If she could face down Mr. James Russell with a sword in her hand and an army at her back, for instance. Or lead every last one of these women to safety through smoke and flames. She ventured a smile round their ranks—they were all watching her as though she were some wild-eyed stranger come to impersonate the mistress—and reached for her nettle brew again.
She would do what she must. Lie still and bear the breaching of her body by a stranger, and then hope the stranger’s seed bore fruit. Sacrifice came in different shapes, for a woman, and if it brought about the proper result, that would have to be grandeur enough.
I’VE ARRANGED all the books that will be of most value to you in this row.” What a pathetic place the library looked, with no family in residence to fill its shelves with novels and leave periodicals lying about. Mr. Granville’s collection took up only two shelves and a half, and doubtless each work was duller than the last.
“I like the ceiling.” Theo threw his head back to study it, hands in his pockets and feet planted apart. “Barrel-vaulting. You don’t see that often. Gives the place a sort of Roman look, wouldn’t you say?” The built-in bookshelves all arched at the top, echoing the ceiling’s curve, and what furniture there was had clean, classical lines. He could approve of this room, if it were given a little life and perhaps a mosaic-patterned carpet.
“Roman, quite.” Granville was brandishing something at him; he could see it from the corner of his eye. “Here’s a work I think will make a good general introduction, and from there you might progress to any of these others.”
He took the pamphlet and cast an eye on its cover. The Utility of Agricultural Knowledge to the Sons of the Landed Proprietors of England, and to Young Men intended for Estate-Agents; illustrated by what has taken place in Scotland. With an Account of an Institution formed for Agricultural Pupils in Oxfordshire. By a Scotch Farmer and Land-Agent, resident in that County. God help him now.
“That’s neatly tailored to the occasion, isn’t it?” He sank into the nearest armchair and flipped a few leaves. Page of oppressive text succeeded page of oppressive text.
“My thoughts exactly.” The man beamed as though he’d written the accursed thing himself. “Now, will I disturb you if I stay here and do a bit of work?” He gestured unintelligibly. “I’d like to finish this map of the parcels available for enclosure, and I’m afraid the gatehouse hasn’t any surface suitable for such drawing.”
“By all means, stay and work.” Parcels? What parcels? Had he dozed through some discussion of that? And would Granville expect him to make a petition for enclosure? Splendid. Another opportunity to display his ignorance. He bent his head over the book and watched sidelong as the agent settled himself before a slanted table on which lay a great sheet of paper all marked in pencil. Drawing maps looked a good deal more interesting than the Utility of Agricultural Knowledge. But then, what didn’t?
“I called on the widow yesterday,” he said after several pages turned.
“Mrs. Russell?” Granville glanced up. “And how is she?—I haven’t seen her since the unhappy event myself. I expect her spirits must be low.”
“I think so.” He had yet to see her smile, now he thought of it. He wouldn’t count that sham quirk of the lips by which she’d lured him into discussion of Brighton. “But I don’t suppose I’m the best suited to judge, just meeting her. She strikes me as being of a sober temperament altogether.”
“To be sure.” The other man held up several pens, examining their points in the light. “A good, serious-minded woman. Not so interested in the lighter things as some women are.”
“I received that impression as well.” He turned another page, its papery whisper a punctuation to his thoughts, though he’d read none of it.
“She had business to discuss, then?” The best pen selected, Granville set the others aside and uncapped a bottle of ink.
“Yes, she had a number of things to say.” Was that typical? As to duration? “Concerning land, and land management, and so forth.”
“Very good.” He dipped his pen and set to inking over the pencil lines. “If I don’t overstep my bounds in saying so, I believe this is exactly the sort of acquaintance Sir Frederick had in mind when he put you here in Sussex.”
“Do you?” Theo bent his head a little lower over the Utility.
“If I don’t overstep.” The pen scratched faintly across the paper, a muted accompaniment to Mr. Granville’s words. “He hoped for you to absorb the influence of respectable people, I know. None more respectable than Mrs. Russell. Did you happen to discuss cottage roofs?”
“No, I don’t recall that being among the topics we canvassed.” May I assume you’re not harboring any dissolute disease?
“Pity. They replaced all the cottage roofs at Seton Park this summer. There might be some value to you in hearing her account of it.”
“Ah. Well, next time, perhaps.” Or perhaps when Hell froze over. A sad day it would be when he had nothing more compelling to discuss with a woman than the replacement of cottage roofs.
Today would go better with Mrs. Russell. It could scarcely go worse, of course. But the more he’d thought on the topic, the more clearly he’d seen that most, if not all, of yesterday’s difficulties could be ascribed to her anxiety. She’d probably never lain with any man excepting her apparent lummox of a husband; certainly never with a stranger, and she would have been so wound up with hoping he’d agree to her bargain, how could she possibly relax? Today he would come to her as a known quantity, his cooperation secured. That would make all the difference.
“The call did her good as well, I don’t doubt.” Granville paused in his inking to consult a paper on which he appeared to have made some notes. “It’s a sad thing, in my opinion, that widows should live so secluded just when society might be most welcome. Never venturing abroad; only waiting for what callers might come. And I don’t believe she has a very broad acquaintance.”
“Then I’ll do my best to not neglect her. As propriety allows, of course.” He rubbed a hand across his mouth to cover an imprudent smile. They were conspiring against him, the virtuous people of the world. Plainly they did not want him among their number. Well, who was he to battle on when such might was arrayed on the opposing side? Between respectable Mrs. Russell bribing him into her bed, and worthy Mr. Gra
nville all but ordering him back there, what could he do but succumb?
SHE WATCHED him undress this time, from her place in the bed where she’d gone before him. His clothing looked expensive—probably one of those indulgences that so affronted his father—but it was at least tasteful. He removed an impeccably tailored coat of sage-tinted wool; then a waistcoat whose more vibrant green quite became, one must allow, his fair coloring and dark blue eyes. “Is that Irish linen?” she said of his shirt, just to be saying something, and “Yes, in fact, it is,” he answered before lifting it, a bit slowly, over his head.
Clearly he was expecting to be admired. He would be used to it, well-proportioned man that he was. His musculature altogether outpaced what she had seen in Mr. Russell, though Mr. Russell had set no very difficult standard to surpass. That mattered to some women. Muscles and so forth. Those taut flat ones across his stomach, for instance. Or the ones that stood out on his arms. Women who didn’t place the proper priority on a man’s character had doubtless taught him to be vain of his physique, and even a woman of principle could enjoy, on some aesthetic level, the picture he made with his shirt removed.
Then he let his pantaloons fall, and that was the end of the enjoyment.
In its place welled up that same dismay she’d known on her first viewing, some ten months past, of a naked man. Whose idea of good design was this? Why those awkward angles, and what could be the necessity for all that hair? If one believed, as the Bible and the Greek myths had it, that man had been created first and woman after, then one must conclude there had been some dramatic improvement in the process following that amateurish first attempt.
Where she was molded, he was rough-hewn. Where her form curved with logic and precision, not to mention breeding parts tucked neatly away, he looked rangy, haphazard, his male parts an ill-placed afterthought. Like the last leftover bits of clay scraped together, rolled into primitive forms and stuck onto the middle of him, the stones in their rough red sack and that improbable appendage dangling to the fore.
Or not dangling, at the moment, but standing alertly up, all expectation, all dumb demand. So had Mr. Russell’s done, with tedious frequency. Her husband’s appendage had stiffened and sought her out regardless what she felt or thought, and for this, finally, she could not respect it.
Nor could she now respect Mr. Mirkwood’s exemplar, despite its apparently remarkable size, and the jaunty air suggesting confidence of its welcome anywhere. It bobbed once or twice when he straightened from stepping out of his clothes, then settled into stillness. She glanced up at him. He was watching her, hands on his hips, satisfied to be the object of a lady’s scrutiny. “It’s all yours, darling, bought and paid for,” he said with what was probably a rakish smile.
What on earth did one say in reply to that? It wasn’t even accurate—she hadn’t paid him yet—but really, the less said on this subject, the better. Yesterday had been rather excruciating in that regard. Your skin is like silk. You smell like flowers. He must seduce chiefly on the strength of his good looks. He couldn’t expect to overcome any lady with poetic invention.
Withdrawing her gaze, she moved over a little and held up the covers on one side. He slipped in beside her, appendage leading the way, as indeed it must lead him through much of his business in life. Instead of proceeding to the task, though, he propped his elbow on the pillow and his cheek on that hand, and angled his face to address her. “Where did you grow up?” he said.
Now what? “In the north part of Cambridgeshire.”
“We’re neighbors, then. My family estate is in Lincolnshire.” He set his hand on her rib cage, fitting each finger into one of the spaces between. “I’m exiled to a mere minor holding here. How many brothers and sisters do you have?”
“Three brothers and a sister. Why do you ask?”
“I want this to be easier for you today.” His voice was light; conversational. His fingers flexed comfortably in the channels between her ribs. “I think if we can talk for a bit, and begin to grow acquainted, your body might not resist so hard as it did yesterday.”
She could feel a scorching blush spread from her ears to her cheeks. “I think it would be better if you just went ahead. If we delay you might lose your readiness.” Too, an increased acquaintance with him was not likely to help his cause. But she wouldn’t say so.
“My readiness?” He grinned as though she’d made some joke especially for his benefit, and brought his mouth down by her ear. “It’s called an erection,” he whispered, “and I assure you I’m in no danger of losing it.”
Was she to congratulate him for the accomplishment? With some remark upon its immensity, no doubt? Men had the strangest notions. “I’d really prefer we begin now. We can converse afterward if you like.” She put her knees apart and closed her eyes. Vague noises ensued: he must be readying his male parts, as he’d done yesterday. A moment later, it began.
Martha gave a small sigh, just to herself. This again. Presumably this was enjoyable with a man one desired. Absent desire, she was left only with the weight of another body on hers. Strange skin against her own, with hair in strange places. Hip-bones pressing into her, and everything pressing into her. Seeking entry; seeking and … gaining it, there, on one long slide.
He breached her with less trouble this time, her body apparently resigning itself to its fate. The rest was much like yesterday, and much as it had been with Mr. Russell. The same farcical action took him to his crisis: haunches heaving in a style reminiscent of some rutting dog, or ram, or any of those other creatures to which she had always supposed a man superior. He bent his head to the pillow, his breath warm and moist and labored against her ear. Close by her ear too were the sounds he made: five grunts and four groans she counted today, spaced gradually closer together, and gradually more urgent in tone until on the last harsh animal utterance he gave up the seed, and it was done with for another day.
He helped her onto the pillow again, strong hand under the small of her back. That was kind of him. He’d been kind to show her this pillow business in the first place. She ought to be polite to him, at least. She took a breath. “On what subject would you like to converse?”
Sidelong she could see how his head turned to consider her, though she kept her own eyes to the canopy. “You’re quite young, aren’t you?” he said. “Not much past twenty, I should think.”
Propriety, one must recall, had different boundaries in an association like this one. A man would expect such familiarity with the woman he bedded. “I’m one and twenty.” She cleared her throat. “Though my sister is fond of saying I’ve never been young.”
“Your husband must have been older by a good margin. He had a wife for ten years, you said.” His curiosity was like an impertinent touch exploring the shape of her cheek, her neck, her shoulder. “How did he land you? Some claim on your father?”
She whipped round to face him. “Inconceivable as it may be to a man of your youth, some young ladies will choose an older man of their own free will. Some weigh factors other than mere sentimental indulgence in making that choice.”
“I’m six and twenty. Not so very young.” Either he’d missed the reprimand, or he’d had so many in his time that he could now absorb one and move on with barely a blink of his ocean-blue eyes. “What factors weighed with you, then? Please don’t say security. Given the outcome, I’d have no choice but to pity you.”
“Save your pity.” She could hear the words emanating from some polar region, calm and cold and distant. “My father was dying. My mother had died long before. My immediate choice was to marry, or to live as my brother’s dependent.”
“I’m sorry.” His eyes glittered at her. On closer observation one perceived bits of gold scattered throughout the blue.
“Thank you. But I was not so well acquainted with my parents as to be very deeply bereaved.”
“Now I’m sorrier still.” Like sunlight sparkling on ocean waves, the gold in his watchful gaze.
“You needn’t be.�
� She angled her face skyward again. “I had a thoroughly competent governess.”
“Sorry you had to choose a husband under such circumstances, then. That must have been difficult.” His manifest curiosity was patting at her again, like the hand of a blind man trying to work out just who she was.
“I should have had to marry sooner or later. And I’m not romantic. I’m sure one husband is very like another.” She tugged at the sheet, to shield more of herself from his scrutiny, but it caught: he had a fold of the fabric pinned underneath him.
“I doubt that.” His hair brushed against the pillow, a sibilant whisper, as he turned to gaze at the canopy with her. “Women are all so different. I expect husbands must be as well.” His scent wafted to her with his movement. At the forefront was something not his own. Something piquant. Citrus. His shaving-soap, most likely. Behind that were other scents, murky and male. Her bed would smell of him when he had gone. So would she. “You don’t miss him, then. Mr. Russell.”
“I never said so.” She tugged again at the sheet. “And I must say I don’t approve of such forward conversation.”
“Forward?” His impudent classical profile gave way to his impudent full-on stare. Even sidelong she could see the gold flecks in his eyes dancing with merriment. “Which one of us is paying the other to be naked in her bed? I shouldn’t speak of forward if I were you.”
“Depend upon it, I am painfully aware of how I have lowered myself, and need no reminding. Notice, though, that I stop short of asking you exactly what prompted your banishment, or whether you miss your most recent mistress. I am not forward without good cause.”
“My banishment isn’t so interesting a tale as you suppose.” Classical profile again, and this time he lifted a hand to inspect his neat fingernails as he spoke. “No cuckolded husband baying for my blood. No gambling away the heirloom silver. Only I’m an expensive son to keep, and therefore trying to my father’s patience.” He ran a thumb over the edge of one nail, back and forth, as though he’d found a ragged spot there. “The precipitating incident, if you would know, was my expenditure of two months’ allowance to buy a single snuffbox. Sèvres.” His glance cut over to her. Without quite realizing it she’d turned on her side to watch him speaking.
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