She felt as if he’d kicked her in the stomach, staring in stunned disbelief, in shock to realize that Ian was serious. No matter what he thought she’d done, she wouldn’t be able to live such a lifestyle. He was prepared to use her as a breeder and then to abandon her.
He intended to ignore her, something she wouldn’t tolerate. For most of her life she’d been ignored. Did the pompous man also believe she was so naive that any dalliance he may have had or considered having with Emmie Gray had gone unnoticed by her? He must think she was blind. Fury welled within her to be treated so shabbily by the man she loved.
“This is a preposterous proposition, and I refuse to consider such a thing,” Bethlyn stated heatedly, barely aware when Ian broke his hold of her, and she crumpled onto the mattress.
“Ah, that rebellious streak must be tamed, sweetheart.”
“And how do you intend to do that?”
“Need you ask, Bethlyn? I know that I’m as much your weakness as you are mine, and don’t bother to deny it.”
She couldn’t deny it, he was right.
“You really won’t want me after I give you a child?’ she asked, hoping against hope that he’d suddenly see the folly of such a stupid idea.
He shrugged. “Perhaps I will, then maybe I won’t. The possibility exists that if I avail myself of your body as often as I wish, I may grow tired of you. Either way, I’ll be occupied elsewhere.”
“Occupied with Emmie Gray?” The woman’s name slipped out before she was aware she’d said it.
“So you know about Emmie.”
“Of course. I saw her at the meeting, remember. I also visited her yesterday. We had an enlightening conversation.”
“Now you understand why everyone admires her.”
“I don’t like the woman, Ian, but my feelings are unimportant. I must know if you love her.”
Bethlyn clutched the sheet to her breasts, her eyes wide and filled with pain, but defying him to say he did. How could he love Emmie Gray after the glorious night of passion they’d shared?
A great shuddering sigh wracked his composure. “At this moment, Bethlyn, I love no one. Not even myself.”
21
The next few weeks were the most miserable of Bethlyn’s life.
She barely saw Ian except when he visited her bed where he took her with little passion. But no matter his treatment of her, he always saw to her pleasure, a bitter pleasure given the circumstances. So many times she was tempted to literally crawl on her hands and knees and beg his forgiveness, somehow convince him that she wasn’t guilty of spying. But she didn’t.
As much as she still loved him, she had her pride. Throwing herself into the social whirl, she attended more balls, picnics, and soirees than she cared to count. Behind a brilliant smile and witty conversation, she hid her pain. At one such glittering affair given by Cynthia and her new husband, Cynthia ushered Bethlyn upstairs to her bedroom. The woman pointedly inquired what was wrong, why did Ian stand like a statue all evening long while countless gentlemen twirled her around the dance floor.
Bethlyn couldn’t admit that Ian didn’t love her any longer, that he most probably had never loved her to treat her so shabbily. But Cynthia didn’t believe her story that the Bristons had had a minor tiff. “A tiff which has lasted almost two months?” Cynthia raised a finely arched brow. “I think not.”
Bethlyn needed to confide in someone, and finally she broke down, weeping huge tears as she explained Ian’s displeasure because she’d helped Molly leave, the only part of her problems she could divulge.
“The man is a beast!” Cynthia cried, and embraced Bethlyn. “I shall give him a good dressing down.”
“No, you mustn’t! I don’t want him to feel guilty about his treatment of me. If he forgives me, I want it to be because he loves me. Otherwise, I don’t want him at all.”
Cynthia contemplated the young woman with red rimmed eyes and smiled gently. “Sometimes a man must be pushed in the right direction.”
Days later, Bethlyn mulled over Cynthia’s words. She knew she might be able to use her feminine wiles on Ian and had no doubt that her body was a great temptation to him. More than once she’d caught him casting lustful glances at her when he thought she didn’t see him. He couldn’t forget their nights together and neither could she. But she refused to seduce him. If he wanted to make things right between them, he’d have to apologize to her.
So preoccupied with her marital troubles, Bethlyn barely registered the fact that pamphlets containing the Dove’s poetry swamped Philadelphia, Before February was over, pamphlets had been printed and distributed, eagerly read by all those people who craved liberty and some who expressed sentiments that the Dove, whomever this person might be, should be sniffed out and hung as a traitor.
John Andre made Bethlyn aware of the Dove’s popularity when he dropped in for tea one afternoon with the lovely but shallow Peggy Shippen as his companion.
Ian arrived home early, an unexpected event of late, and took a seat on the sofa next to Bethlyn as John rattled on about General Howe’s aggravation over the poems.
John took the pamphlet in question out of his breast pocket and laid it on a side table. “I tell you that Howe is getting a great deal of flak over the Dove. People loyal to the king are demanding that he discover this person’s identity and put an end to all of the patriotic prattle which has erupted.” John wolfed down a crumpet and grinned in amusement. “I’ve never seen the old boy so flustered. The Dove is more popular than that wench Emmie Gray.”
Bethlyn stiffened, not giving Ian an extra look, when Peggy made a haughty sound of disdain. “Personally I think the uproar is ridiculous. Poetry can’t possibly change the tide of the war. The British will be victorious,” she stated emphatically, as if her knowledge about the war extended beyond the parties and dancing with British soldiers into the wee hours of the morning. “I can’t imagine life if the colonials win. Things will be so horribly dull.”
Peggy smiled at Bethlyn, expecting her to agree, but Bethlyn stirred her tea, not acknowledging Peggy’s remark.
“What do you say about all of this, Ian?” John asked. “Have you read the Dove’s poems?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I find her style to be quite refreshing, simple and unaffected. Granted, the work is overlong but never ponderous or dull. She flings herself at liberty as a moth flies into a flame. I can understand how her enthusiasm would capture people’s attentions and disturb General Howe.”
“You sound like a champion of the Dove,” Peggy commented, a hint of slyness in her voice. “What makes you believe the Dove is a woman?”
“Because of the softness and gentleness expressed beneath the surface,” Ian explained, pouring a glass of brandy. “This woman is not only a poetess, but a true patriot. I recommend that she be taken seriously.” He lifted the glass a bit, almost as if he toasted the Dove.
Bethlyn placed her teacup on the table beside the sofa in fear she’d drop it. Tremors ran the length of her spine, the reality of the Dove’s sensation hitting her with full force. Here she sat under the nose of a British captain and his Tory companion while her husband, a hunted man in his own right, favorably commented on the merits of a work she’d anonymously penned, something for which she could be hanged. Even if she’d ever considered admitting to Ian that she’d written the poetry, she knew she could never tell him now.
Though John and Peggy apparently didn’t recognize his fascination with the Dove, Bethlyn did. When the conversation switched to gossip about the wife of an officer who was involved with a lowly soldier, Peggy taking delight in disclosing every juicy detail of the affair, Bethlyn noticed that Ian pretended to listen. He commented in the appropriate places, but she could tell his mind wasn’t on the discussion.
From the feverish gleam in his eyes, the gleam she’d seen so many times when he spoke about his country’s fight for independence, and the way his gaze lingered on the pamphlet on the table, she g
uessed that Emmie Gray was about to be displaced by the Dove. Almost tempted to crow her delight, she restrained herself at the irony of the situation.
Ian had found a new heroine. Herself.
~
Three days later Bethlyn sat beside Ian on the Briston pew in Christ Church for the burial services of Mrs. Babcock. The old lady had also died in her sleep, and though she’d been in poor health since the death of her grandson, it was felt that her husband’s passing had hastened her own departure from this earth.
Out of the corner of her eye, Bethlyn watched Emmie Gray, who sat on the pew in front of them, dab a finely made linen kerchief to her eye. Her black mourning gown, embroidered with a thin braid of gold at the cuffs and hem, made a startling contrast against the paleness of her elegantly coiffed hair, covered by a gossamer wisp of black tulle. Bethlyn hadn’t recognized Emmie at first, taking her for a wealthy relative of the Babcocks until she’d remembered that the old couple had had no living relations after the death of their grandson. Now Emmie Gray resembled a confident and wealthy woman, totally unlike the demure, shy girl Bethlyn had first seen at Simpson House.
And wealthy she was, too. The Babcocks’ lawyer had paid a visit to Edgecomb yesterday morning to inform Ian of the terms of Mrs. Babcock’s will, which had been changed the day after Mr. Babcock’s death. The will stated that Emmie Gray should be judged heir to the Babcock house and fortune, having been regarded as a dear daughter to the old couple in the short time she’d resided with them. Ian was to be executor of the estate until Emmie reached the age of twenty-one in two years time, and he would advise Emmie and see to her overall well-being.
Bethlyn had felt some surprise that Ian even bothered mentioning the details to her. Was she supposed to cheer for the poor orphaned darling who wheedled her way into the affections of an old and lonely couple? Did Ian want her to congratulate him on being named executor of the Babcock fortune? Did he want her to give her blessing to the many nights he’d spend advising Emmie?
She’d looked at him as he stood before her in the library, the morning sun highlighting the rugged features of his face, literally willing herself to drown in the beryl pools of his eyes and unable to stop her heart’s rapid pounding. She knew she should hate him and treat him with contempt, but she loved him. Cruelty wasn’t in Bethlyn’s nature.
Somehow, though she felt like weeping because she believed that she’d truly lost him now, she managed to smile and hide her pain. “How very fortunate for both of you. Miss Gray is lucky that Mrs. Babcock chose you to be executor. Now, if you will excuse me.”
Bethlyn had risen from her chair to leave the library when Ian made a move and touched her arm. The gentle pressure of his hand nearly brought tears to her eyes, because it seemed so long ago that he’d touched her with tenderness.
“Mrs. Babcock entrusted me with Emmie’s future. I want you to know that this is no doing of mine.”
“I believe you. Still, the request is a fortuitous pairing for the both of you. Please let me know when the carriage is ready for the funeral.”
And with that she’d left the library.
Now Bethlyn wondered if she should have admitted how much she minded this new turn of events. Would a tirade have done any good? She didn’t think so. Ian would only have declared that she was jealous of Emmie Gray and couldn’t possibly understand the heroic Emmie. But Bethlyn didn’t think Emmie was that much of a heroine for escaping being scalped by savages. Any normal person would have run. Yet when the service ended and the coffin containing Mrs. Babcock’s remains was buried in the churchyard, people milled around Emmie like she was a reigning queen. They consoled her, held her hand, patted her slender back, and assured her in hushed tones that people loved her and could be counted upon if she ever needed any help. Bethlyn wanted to retch.
Finally, when she thought she could stand no more, Ian took her by the elbow and escorted her to Emmie. Upon seeing Ian, Emmie’s eyes grew bright, and the tears hanging on the tips of her lashes resembled exquisite diamonds.
“My wife and I wish to pay our respects on your loss, Miss Gray. Please accept our condolences.”
Emmie’s fingers clutched Ian’s hand like a piranha’s teeth and held on tightly. “Thank you for coming today. I’m so relieved that Mrs. Babcock put you in charge of my affairs. Could you please come to the house tonight? I hope Mrs. Briston won’t mind, but we do have a great deal to discuss and plans to make.”
I just bet you do, Bethlyn thought to herself, and hated Emmie Gray more at that moment than she’d ever hated any other person in her life. However, her face appeared serene and she managed to look sympathetic at the same time. To her unmitigated shock, Ian turned to her and said, “Do you mind, Bethlyn?”
For the second time that day Ian had thrown her off balance. He didn’t have to tell her about Mrs. Babcock’s will and certainly he didn’t need to ask her if she minded his visiting Emmie Gray. Ian was the sort of man who did whatever he pleased. Yet she was flattered that he’d thought to ask her at all. She didn’t want him to see Emmie Gray, but she knew she’d appear small if she admitted to this. Or perhaps Ian wanted anyone who happened to be listening to believe that he was a kind and considerate husband, to protect Emmie’s reputation by making it appear that his wife had given her blessing for him to visit the woman’s home on business concerns. Anger roiled within her at this notion, but no other choice was left to her. “I don’t mind,” she said softly, but her tone was frosty.
“How wonderful,” Emmie breathed, and shot a smug smile in Bethlyn’s direction. “I shall see you this evening at seven, Mr. Briston, and would you care to dine with me?”
“Thank you, but no. I’ll dine at home.”
Emmie released Ian’s hand when a friend of Mrs. Babcock’s appeared to cluck over her like a mother hen. At this point Bethlyn shrugged off Ian’s hold on her elbow and headed for the carriage. When inside, she didn’t glance at Ian, but she knew he watched her intently.
“Are you jealous of Emmie?”
She turned her head from the window and glared at him. “My feelings about Emmie Gray are unimportant to you. No matter what I’d say about her, whether good or ill, you’d find some way to belittle me by comparing me with her. And I warrant that I’d come up lacking. No one can possibly be as noble, heroic, and beautiful as the image of Emmie Gray you’ve built in your mind.”
“You shouldn’t be jealous of Emmie. You’re much more beautiful than she could ever hope to be.” And with that remark, he retreated into silence, not saying another word.
~
Ian had never kissed Emmie Gray.
When he sat in the Babcock parlor that evening while a servant whom he’d never before seen in all his visits to the Babcock house went upstairs to tell Emmie of his arrival, he wondered why he hadn’t. He’d held her against him many times, had kissed her hand, and, more often than he cared to count, Emmie’s full and sensual lips had tempted him to possess them. Why didn’t he just take the girl in his arms and kiss her? He sensed that Emmie would eventually surrender herself to him if he wished to make love to her after, no doubt, entreating him to be tender with her and have some regard for her maidenhood.
He’d made love to countless women in his life. Emmie appealed to him, but she was young and untried in the ways of love. She was also liberty’s heroine and he’d been forced to put her on a pedestal, which he deemed her rightful place.
Emmie’s innocence and bravery, her recountings of the horrible night her family had been killed, sparked a protectiveness within him which he’d only felt in relation to Molly. He might be attracted to Emmie, but in his mind she’d become like a sister to him, and a man didn’t desire his sister. And then there was Bethlyn. Bethlyn with the honey-brown hair and bright brown eyes which glowed when he made love to her. It hurt him to think about her and her treachery.
He’d poured and finished drinking a brandy when the servant girl appeared. “Miss Gray isn’t up to coming downstairs tonight, sir. Th
e funeral today has undone her and she’s grieving. She requests that you join her upstairs in Mrs. Babcock’s sitting room.”
Poor Emmie, he thought, and climbed the stairs. She’d been through a terrible ordeal the last few months, first to lose her family and, now, the deaths of the Babcocks, people she’d grown to love. He decided not to take up too much of her time. Emmie needed to rest.
The servant opened the sitting-room door and closed it after he entered the room. The white walls and the blue and green floral rug on the floor impressed him, as did the feminine and graceful furnishings. A perfect place for Emmie to seek solace, he realized. But where was Emmie?
He called her name and heard her answer from the adjoining room. Walking through the doorway, he discovered himself in a white and pink bedroom. A large tester bed stood in the center of the room, the white hangings tied to the posts by dainty pink ribbons. Within the center of the bed sat Emmie. He moved to the bed and stopped short at the foot, somehow stupidly embarrassed to find her covered by a thin sheet, her bare shoulders looking soft and alluring in the candlelight. Waves of silver-gold hair cascaded down her back, and never had he noticed that her eyes were so translucent a blue. Ian stood transfixed.
When she spoke, the sensual and seductive quality of her voice heightened the spell, “Thank you for coming upstairs, Ian. I do appreciate it.” She patted the spot next to her on the bed. “Please sit here. I don’t feel well enough to get up. The day has been most draining.”
Like a fly in a spider’s web, he sat next to her, feeling the pressure of her thigh against his. He couldn’t look away from Emmie. Her eyes, her voice, her face captivated him in some strange and perverse way; he’d never before seen her like this. Usually she dressed in a maidenly, almost childish manner. The Emmie reclining in the bed, and who suddenly took his hand and brought his fingers to her mouth to gently kiss and then seductively suck with her lips, was no child.
Pirate's Bride (Liberty's Ladies) Page 32