Just Another Lady (Xcite Romance)

by Penelope Friday

  ‘Sir Hugo Mansfield seems to dislike you intensely,’ Elinor commented in the carriage on the way home.

  ‘Yes.’ Lucius leaned back against the sumptuous seat. ‘He resents me because he believes I stole his mistress.’

  ‘Oh,’ Elinor said blankly, wondering whether all husbands were as open about their peccadillos as Lucius. Though, she thought ruefully, she was not precisely the usual sort of wife. Lucius had made it clear when marrying her that he intended to continue womanising: she had been bought and paid for to find it acceptable. ‘Did you?’ she asked, controlling her voice in a way she felt was impressive in the circumstances.

  ‘In a way,’ he said. Elinor wondered how there could possibly be a middle ground in such things. Surely one either had a mistress or did not? Lucius was clearly aware of her thoughts, and smiled at her before continuing. ‘I assisted her to get out of a situation not to her liking.’ He paused, clearly wondering how much more to say. ‘He hurt her,’ he said coolly. ‘Sometimes with whips or knives.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Elinor again; then, in an attempt to live up to Lucius’s savoir faire, she added, ‘I take it she did not wish him to?’

  ‘No.’ There was a flash of anger in Lucius’s eyes, and he spat the word sharply. ‘No,’ he said again, this time more calmly, ‘she did not wish him to.’ Elinor said no more, slightly ashamed of her question; and after a minute or two had passed, Lucius spoke again, in the polite tones of a stranger. ‘I trust you had a pleasant evening?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, wishing she hadn’t gone at all; wishing she’d never married this gentleman with his moods and his complicated history. ‘Yes, a very pleasant evening.’

  It was three nights later when Elinor, waiting for her most recent dance partner to fetch her a glass of champagne, overheard a conversation between Miss Dolinger and a couple of her friends.

  ‘I never did think much of Crozier,’ Miss Dolinger announced, ‘but surely he could have done better than that squat little wife of his. After all of those inamoratas, well known for their beauty, as well! I don’t know how he could.’

  ‘Well, Jane Fevell says that Miss Shaw’s sister saw Crozier with that actress last week,’ one of the other ladies commented. ‘You know, the one who’s making so many of the gentlemen’s heads turn.’

  ‘And it’s not for the quality of her acting,’ squealed Miss Dolinger happily. ‘Well, that doesn’t surprise me. It wouldn’t take Crozier long to set up a new mistress, given what he has to go home to.’

  Elinor’s partner returned with the drink, and Elinor gratefully moved out of earshot of Belinda Dolinger. Of course, it was perfectly reasonable that Lucius should be bedding another woman: he had certainly made it clear that fidelity was not on the agenda. But still, it hurt. It hurt more, too, to have it society gossip – surely, thought Elinor grumpily, the least Lucius might have managed was to keep his affairs private. It only occurred to her considerably later that Miss Dolinger and her satellites might have known that she was close enough to overhear them; but that consoled her very little. She nevertheless had no reason to doubt the information

  It was more comforting when Elinor was granted tickets for Almacks – that holy of holies for everyone who wanted to count as someone. Why the exclusivity of Almacks made up for the fact that the balls were very tepid affairs, and the refreshments extremely uninteresting, no one could quite say. The fact was, however, that being given tickets to the place assured one of claiming a high place in society. Elinor had a shrewd suspicion that her disagreements with Belinda Dolinger had assisted her to gain such a prize: the Princess Esterházy, one of the guardians of Almacks, had a barely disguised loathing for Miss Dolinger, whom she saw as distinctly common in her manners and ways, even if not by birth. Elinor suspected strongly that she was invited to Almacks more as a slap in the face for the vulgar Belinda than because of her own merits. It didn’t hurt, either, of course, that several of the middle-aged ladies who ran the place had an undeniable fondness for Lucius; but Elinor preferred not to think about that. Too many people were fond of Lucius, and Elinor would not be jealous, she would not.

  On nights when they did not go out together, Lucius often went out on his own. True to her promises, Elinor resisted the desperate urge to demand where he was going – and with whom – but it hurt a little bit more each time he went. He was polite enough, invariably inquiring whether she would be all right without him, but Elinor thought he seemed more distant on these evenings. She wondered, painfully, whether he was distancing himself from her before cheating on her: a sort of mental retreat. But then, why would he need to? Maybe he just hated being in her company. There had been evenings before when she knew perfectly well that Lucius had had no intention of going out; yet after an hour or so with her, he abruptly got up. One in particular stood out.

  ‘I’m going out for a bit,’ he had said abruptly.

  Elinor was shocked. They had been in the middle of a conversation about the latest ladies fashion – perhaps not the most thrilling topic for a gentleman, although he seemed to know a great deal about the subject – but still, surely not so terribly dull that he felt obliged to leave the house to escape from her? He could, after all, just have changed the subject.

  ‘That’s sudden,’ she’d said weakly.

  He appeared to be glaring at her; Elinor could not for the life of her understand what she had done to make him so angry.

  ‘I need some fresh air.’ He had left at once, not even thinking to take a cape with him, though the night was cold.

  After that, Elinor had noticed that whenever they had no plans for an evening, Lucius usually found some excuse to go out alone. Hurt, but determined not to show it, she made it clear that it was irrelevant to her whether he was present or not.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she reassured him that evening through gritted teeth. ‘A quiet evening in with a book is just what I need.’

  When he had gone, she looked down at her book – Maria Edgeworth’s A Vindication Of The Rights Of Women – and wondered where it had all gone wrong. Frustrated at her own mood, she decided to put aside the book and write to her mother.

  Dear Mamma ...

  Elinor looked at the first line and wondered what she could say. So much had happened in London, but the nuances were such that she wasn’t sure what to mention. She was used to confiding almost everything in her mother, but her marriage had been the first break in this, and now – now Elinor was looking at a white sheet of paper and wondered how she could fill it.

  It was lovely to get your note today. It sounds like you are doing really well – I’m so glad, dear. I laughed at your description of the neighbours falling over each other to visit; your pen can be very cruel! Remind me not to get on your bad side.

  All is well here, too. Lucius is –

  Elinor stopped again. “Nice to me”, she had been going to write; but since in her mother’s eyes this was a love match, Mrs Everton would expect nothing less. Indeed, even to mention it might set alarm bells ringing for her mother, who was no fool. Elinor would do anything to keep from worrying her. Better Mrs Everton might be; well, she certainly was not. After careful thought, Elinor continued:

  – in his element in London society.

  Then, smiling, for her mother had told her that she read the Society pages of the papers, she added:

  If you are wondering how much of the gossip in the newspapers is true, approximately half. But as Lucius loves people to be uncertain as to which half, I will leave that decision with you. There is much, however, that the news does not say

  And Elinor told a little about the interest Lucius took in the poorer parts of the city, realising to her shame how little she herself knew.

  Then, turning to lighter matters, she told her mother about the modistes she had visited and the astronomical number of new dresses she now owned.

  – And hats, Mamma! Truly, I have a hat for every occasion. I tell Lucius I shall never need to buy another, but he laughs and returns with f
urther new offerings to tempt me with.

  Mamma would like that: although she knew that Lucius was rich enough to buy a dozen hats each day and not notice the expense, Mrs Everton – like Elinor herself, if truth be told – would appreciate the gesture.

  By the time the letter was finished, Elinor had written herself, as well as (she hoped) her mother, into a feeling of fondness for Lucius; and smiling ruefully, decided that however much of Maria Edgeworth’s polemic she might sympathise with, nonetheless life as a rich lady was not so hard.

  She returned to her reading with less enthusiasm, and was easily disturbed by the sound of a footman opening a door. It was too early for Lucius to return, but surely too late for any casual visitor? Had anything happened? Anything bad? When Wootten was announced, she stood to greet him with some anxiety.

  ‘Has something happened to Lucius?’ she demanded.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Wootten looked confused for a second. ‘Oh. No, nothing like that. I apologise if my late arrival concerned you. I wanted to have a few words with Lucius about the governors’ meeting at the workhouse in a fortnight’s time. I gather he is not at home, however?’

  ‘No.’ Elinor bit her lip to prevent herself saying more. Evidently one of the people that Lucius was not out with was Wootten. Which made it even more likely that he was with one of his inamoratas.

  Wootten smiled ruefully. ‘It was a faint hope, I suppose. I admit that I often forget that other people enjoy the parts of London society that I find tedious in the extreme.’

  ‘Like women?’ The words slipped out before Elinor could prevent them.

  ‘Come now, that is unfair. You know by now – at least I presume you do –’ Wootten added, ‘that I very much enjoy your company.’

  ‘That wasn’t precisely what I meant,’ said Elinor dryly.

  A faint colour spread across Wootten’s cheeks. ‘Oh.’ He recovered himself. ‘I acknowledge that that is not an area I have a great deal of experience in.’

  ‘Unlike my husband.’ Wootten hesitated, and Elinor felt ashamed to have put him in such an embarrassing situation. Keeping her voice light, she added, ‘It is all right. You need to hide nothing from me. I know he has mistresses.’

  Wootten looked at her. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘he had – before his marriage.’

  Elinor sighed. Wootten – bless the man – was an idealist. The idea that anyone might not have married for love did not occur to him. She caught herself up. Wootten was on the committee of a workhouse in one of the poorest parts of London: an idealist he might be, but he was not ignorant. Say, then, something different: it would not occur to Wootten that his dear friend, Lucius, might have married for any other reason than love.

  ‘It is fine,’ she assured him, smiling. ‘I do not mind.’

  Wootten went to speak, then stopped.

  ‘What?’ Elinor demanded.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said.

  ‘Tell me,’ she urged.

  ‘I was going to say,’ Wootten said uncomfortably, ‘that perhaps you should mind.’ As Elinor’s smile faded, he added, ‘You will say it is none of my business, and you will, of course, be right. But I am fond of you, and it seems a pity ... Well. It is none of my business.’

  Elinor looked at his flushed, embarrassed face and appreciated the honesty which had led him to speak. ‘Thank you for caring,’ she said gently, ‘but I’m afraid my marriage is no one’s business but my own.’

  ‘And Lucius’s.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Elinor, her tone grim. ‘Certainly his.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ Wootten said. ‘I should not have spoken.’

  She placed a hand gently on his arm. ‘I appreciate your intentions, Mr Wootten. You are an extremely decent gentleman and I’m glad to count you a friend.’

  He laughed. ‘If I have to be given a brush off, I prefer your way of effecting it, Mrs Crozier. I too am glad to count you a friend.’

  He bowed, and left her. Strangely, Elinor thought, he had made her less distressed. Certainly he had said nothing that gave her any hope that Lucius was not having affairs, but that was not the point. He had reminded her, unintentionally, with his mention of the workhouse Lucius and he took an interest in, that there were indeed people considerably worse off than herself; and his gently offered friendship was something she treasured. Perhaps things were not quite so bad.

  Two days later, driving out with Lucius in the park, Elinor had a memorable, unpleasant experience. Drawing up the horses, Lucius turned to her.

  ‘You see the lady over to your left?’ he said quietly.

  Elinor looked. “Lady” was perhaps not the word she would have used for someone who was evidently a member of the oldest profession, albeit undeniably an upmarket version thereof. The woman’s clothes were rich and beautiful and she wore them well, but they were considerably too revealing for modesty.

  She nodded, wondering for one bleak second whether Lucius was about to reveal the identity of his latest mistress. She could not complain if he did so; but oh, she did not wish to know. The woman was pretty – would have been called beautiful if it were not for the fact that her face was marred by a scar which puckered the corner of her left eye on its way down towards her ear. Elinor wondered, for a brief moment, whether Lucius would be attracted to her if she wore such clothes. She was not as well proportioned, certainly – but then she did not have that scar.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Sir Hugo did that.’ Lucius’s voice was dispassionate. ‘The scar. She has others, too, thanks to his treatment of her. She told me he got harder faster if she bled and wept. Sometimes he used her blood to coat his erection before he took her.’

  Elinor felt a wave of nausea overtake her, feeling guilty for her earlier comparison of the woman’s looks to her own. ‘That’s the woman ...’ She trailed off, but Lucius understood her question.

  ‘That is the ‘mistress’ I stole from him, yes. You may think, of course – as Mansfield did – that the fact that she is a courtesan means that she does not deserve anything better.’

  ‘No,’ Elinor said quietly. ‘No, I do not think that.’

  ‘I wanted you to understand,’ he said simply, and turned back to the horses, urging them on once more.

  Although Elinor had been silenced on the occasion of her seeing the courtesan, there was one way in which her usual relationship with Lucius had changed very little since their childhood. They had always verbally sparred. Elinor had never wished to allow Lucius to best her in a war of words; he, it was evident, felt the same way. There was an element of teasing in their battle: often one would make a comment which the other knew perfectly well was not something they believed, for the purposes of annoying their spouse or winning an argument. Elinor supposed that perhaps they should have grown past the age of bickering like children; but it was one of the ways in which Lucius always had made her feel more alive, more fired up – and that certainly had not altered, though the experience of the feelings themselves had grown and changed.

  She remembered a case in their long distant past when, angered by a claim Lucius had made, she had grabbed a fencing foil from its stand and attacked. Elinor had always said afterwards that it was not that he had beaten her quite easily with his own foil – that, of course, was to be expected: he had had considerably more practice with the implement than she. But he had toyed with her for a couple of minutes, allowing her to think that she might have some chance of winning before flicking the foil from her grasp: it was that which had frustrated her about the encounter.

  Tonight’s argument was on the subject of literature. As they left dinner, therefore, they were arguing about the quality of John Milton’s Paradise Lost and his Paradise Regained. Elinor was determined that the former was considerably the more interesting of the books.

  She swept over to the table where her copy of Paradise Lost lay, and began to read:

  ‘“Receive thy new possessor: One who brings

  A mind not to be changed by place
or time.

  The mind is its own place, and in itself

  Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.

  What matter where, if I be still the same?”

  ‘I find the idea that one can create a happy life for oneself no matter what the external circumstances uplifting. I have a great deal of time for Milton’s Satan.’

  ‘Of course you sympathise with the devil,’ Lucius agreed blandly, leaning casually against the mantelpiece. ‘After all, you are a woman.’

  Elinor knew he was only trying to provoke her, but he was nevertheless successful in his aim. The book was still in her hand, and she walked across and without warning slapped it against him. She made contact, then heard a muffled cry, and looked over her shoulder to see Lucius doubled up in pain.

  ‘There is no need for theatrics,’ she scolded him, presuming him once again to be faking his anguish to catch her off guard, just as he had faked a clumsiness with a foil all those years ago. ‘It was a gentle slap – and well deserved, I must say.’

  Lucius, his hands pressed to his groin, glared at her. ‘I assure you that I am not overacting. Do you know what it feels like to …’ He cut off. ‘Of course, you wouldn’t. As we have just been agreeing, you are a lady. However, let me inform you for your future information that there are some parts of a man where the gentlest slap can hurt – even when not assisted by the sharp corner of an unnecessarily heavy book.’

  ‘Oh.’ Elinor paused, realising where she must have caught him, and utterly mortified. She hesitated, unsure whether to flee for her bedroom or to try and undo the damage caused. But she couldn’t stroke him there. Goodness knew she had trouble enough keeping her thoughts away from his body at the best of time, without touching him in such an intimate position. She could feel her face burning with embarrassment as she said guiltily ‘I am so sorry.’