Lord Lightning

by Jenny Brown

  He read on, expecting unpleasantness. But the fear that he was about to find himself involved in an affair of honor with an enraged father gave way to astonishment as he read on. Instead of demanding that Lord Hartwood make an honest woman of his daughter, or meet him at dawn with pistols, Eliza’s father had taken quite a different tack.

  Writing that after learning of His Lordship’s fondness for his daughter and bearing in mind that such a girl, had her father’s luck not turned so abominably bad, might have had considerably brighter prospects, but of course, understanding fully, as he did, that such things happened, as unfortunate as they might appear to those who looked only at surface considerations, which a life of philosophy had taught him to ignore, Eliza’s father finally rambled to the point: Might His Lordship be prevailed upon to make himself a small loan, a trifle of some several hundred pounds to be repaid when his circumstances improved? He had every reason to believe this might occur in the very near future. Meanwhile, he hastened to assure Lord Hartwood, if such a loan were made, His Lordship could rest comfortably in the assurance that Eliza’s father would not trouble him again.

  Edward sat, stunned. Eliza’s father’s only concern was to extract some financial profit from his daughter’s ruin.

  Such things were not unheard of. One could not be a man of the world without knowing that in the degenerate classes men did sometimes sell their daughters when there was no other way to keep body and soul together.

  But the letter that he held in front of him, with its heraldic seal and casually scrawled signature, left no possibility that Eliza’s father might be such a miserable brute. For at the sight of the seal Edward had realized he knew the man. Everyone knew him. He was a fixture of the gaming hells. Robert Farrell, third son of the Marquess of Evesbury, the man they nicknamed Pythagoras because of his lifelong obsession with working out a mathematical system with which to beat the house.

  Quickly he scanned his memory for what else he might know about the man. He remembered something about a runaway marriage and that Farrell had been disinherited. But all else he knew for certain about the man was that his bad luck at the gaming tables was legendary and that no one, no matter how far gone in his cups, would ever lend Pythagoras Farrell a penny.

  But if Eliza was Pythagoras Farrell’s daughter, she was also the granddaughter of a marquess and a woman whose social rank was equal to his own. She was a gentlewoman, an innocent gentlewoman who had borne her untold sufferings with exactly the kind of quiet, uncomplaining fortitude that embodied what was best about the English aristocracy.

  Edward rubbed his forehead in distress. How could he have been so oblivious to the signs she was a woman of his own class? Her accent might be rural, but that was only because she had been raised far from the metropolis. He blessed whatever good angel it was who had taken him under its protection that he had been spared the horror of discovering too late that, like the man he despised above all others—his brother, James—he had ruined a girl of gentle birth.

  But his feeling of complacency on that account did not last more than a few moments. Though Eliza retained her maidenhead, his behavior had ruined her as thoroughly as if he had raped her that first night at his town house. Whether or not he had made her his mistress in fact, the polite world believed he had, and in that world—in which she deserved to move—the appearance was as important as the fact.

  A quiet voice whispered that there was no remedy for what he had done to Eliza except to marry her. The thought stopped him dead. He had never wished to be married. He had seen nothing in the marriages of his peers to convince him that marriage was anything more than a trap every bit as deadly as Eliza’s aunt had suggested. But barely had that thought completed when he remembered what he had felt when Eliza had nestled in his embrace in the carriage as they had made their way back from the shore, and for the first time in a long and eccentric life, the unpredictability of his nature shot home and Lord Lightning astonished himself.

  He wanted to marry her.

  Marriage might be a trap, but he wanted her trapped—in his arms, in his bed, in his heart. The realization that his own twisted sense of honor demanded that he marry her unleashed a ferocious desire to keep her in his life. Though the more rational part of him knew he could not succeed at marriage any more than that he could fly off a cliff by flapping man-made wings, he knew he must make the attempt, even if it killed him.

  His train of thought was interrupted as Eliza entered the room. She had changed out of her wet clothes as he had instructed her to do, but rather than donning another gown as he had expected her to do, she had wrapped herself in nothing more than a dressing gown of the thinnest silk. Its peach-like tone brought out the beauty of her auburn hair. Its soft folds emphasized the curve of her breasts. Was she wearing anything underneath it at all? He would have sworn she wasn’t. With difficulty he forced himself to ignore the provocation she presented, wondering all the while what she meant by appearing this way. Coming from any other woman the message would have been unmistakable. But this was Eliza, so he knew not what to make of it.

  Unsure how to proceed, he reached for the gift he had bought for her earlier, Miss Austen’s book. Considering what he was about to offer her—his hand in marriage—the gift was of trivial importance, and yet, as he handed her the fat parcel containing the four volumes, he could not help but feel anxiety as to how she would receive it. He wanted so much for it to please her.

  She took the parcel from him with a smile that seemed to him, oversensitive as he was at this particular moment, a trifle forced.

  “You were too kind to purchase so extravagant a gift for me, “she said as she set about unwrapping the brown paper in which it was covered.

  He thought he detected a slight hesitation in her voice. Perhaps it was only his guilty imagination that made him think it, but she seemed to be avoiding his eye, too, which was unusual, given how fearlessly she was wont to gaze at him. The absence of her regard made him aware of how accustomed he had become to losing himself in the sea green depths of her open gaze whenever they were together.

  Still wishing to avoid conversation, he strolled over to a small desk and picked up a paper knife with a gold and onyx handle and brought it over to her. She would need it to cut the pages of the new book. “This was my father’s, so I expect it’s mine now,” he said. “You may consider it, too, a gift.”

  Again she thanked him. Again he had the feeling she was holding herself apart from him. Had he frightened her that much with their seaside embrace? But if so, why had she appeared wearing nothing but that provocative dressing gown?

  Finally she spoke. “I should like to begin reading my new book immediately, but that would be rude, and a very poor way of thanking you for my gift.”

  “On the contrary, I should take your enthusiasm as proof that my gift pleased you.” He was glad to find a neutral topic with which he could converse with her.

  Eliza gave him a wary, considering look. Then she seated herself in the tall brown leather chair across from where he already was seated, and for a good half hour they sat in companionable silence, Eliza reading and Edward pretending to do so.

  How could he bring up the subject of marriage with her? And how could he do it without revealing that he had received her father’s shameful letter? He wished to spare her any knowledge of that—indeed he must. He did not wish her to know how the letter had catalyzed his desire to wed her. He knew Eliza well enough by now to guess how she would respond to any hint that he wished to marry her out of pity.

  It was unfortunate that the subject of marriage had come up the previous afternoon and that he had told Eliza that he shared her Radical aunt’s disapproval of the institution. It would be hard to suggest marriage now without seeming like the worst sort of hypocrite. On the other hand, she did seem fond of him, and the way her body had responded to his during that lingering kiss by the seaside had certainly confirmed that however unusual a creature she might be, she was still, at heart, a woman. So
perhaps, though her theories condemned matrimony, she might respond more favorably were she to receive an actual proposal. Perhaps she had declared her disdain for marriage because she thought it was what he wished to hear.

  But a moment’s reflection brought home to him that Eliza had never shown the slightest inclination to say what he wanted to hear. Her disdain for marriage was real, so he must move carefully. If he were to make her a formal proposal only to have it thrown back in his face, he couldn’t answer for what might happen. He could not bear to lose control of himself again and make her his victim as he had done to Estella. So before he could risk making a proposal, he must determine exactly the true state of her feelings on the subject.

  It was time to interrupt her reading.

  “Does Miss Austen live up to your expectations?” he inquired.

  Eliza looked up from her book. As she cocked her head in that irresistible way of hers he saw the slightest trace of a blush infuse the adorable freckles scattered over her cheek, almost as if he had interrupted her in some guilty thought, but she quickly responded to his question. “The story begins with some selfish relatives, rather like the beginning of Sense and Sensibility, but the heroine is out of the common way.”

  “How so?”

  “She isn’t a young girl, like the heroines of most novels, but an older lady of some seven-and-twenty years, well past her prime. She has turned away a suitor in her youth because he had no prospects. Now he is to return to the neighborhood after having earned himself a fortune.”

  “And does he pay her his addresses, despite having been previously rejected?”

  “I haven’t read that far, but as it is a novel, and as she appears to be the heroine, one has to assume they will eventually be happy, though not before a good deal of suffering is got through. One doesn’t expect the story in a novel to work out as it would in real life.”

  Hoping to turn the conversation from such polite generalities to the subject that now filled his mind, he ventured, “Perhaps now that her objection to him has been removed, her suitor will propose to her again.”

  “That would be unlikely. What wealthy man would want a faded woman of twenty-seven when he could have a beauty of eighteen?”

  This had possibilities. “At twenty-seven a woman may still have much to recommend her. I can’t imagine having the conversations I have with you with some chit of eighteen, nor can I imagine turning to her, as I have to you, for advice.”

  If only he could get the benefit of that advice in his current situation! Then it struck him how he could. He need only pretend that the advice he was seeking was for someone other than himself.

  He cleared his throat, “Speaking of advice, I had a letter today from a good friend of mine in town who has got himself into something of a pickle with a young lady. I had meant to ask you what you thought might be the best thing for him to do, but it slipped my mind until now.”

  Eliza’s face lit up. Like all women she did love to give advice. “What are his circumstances?”

  He tented his fingers before him and plunged on. “My friend is, not to put too fine a point on it, something of a rake—not at all the sort of man a decent woman would consort with. But with one thing and another he’s managed to compromise a girl of good birth. The thing to do, of course, would be to offer for her. But my friend is having a great deal of trouble bringing himself to the point. He writes to me for advice, probably assuming I will talk him out of it. Still, I find myself somewhat at a loss to know what it is I should tell him.”

  “Has he got her with child?” Eliza demanded.

  “Oh nothing like that. The damage is only to her reputation. But people are talking, and my friend has unwisely given them something rather juicy to talk about, though he has not, in fact, violated her. My friend is not utterly lost to honor. Indeed, it is because he still has some shreds of honor left that he wonders if he must marry her.”

  “Well, the answer seems perfectly clear to me,” Eliza said forcefully. “Such a marriage would be a terrible mistake. Were there the possibility of a child, marriage would be a necessity. It’s not right to bring a child into the world knowing it will have to live with the shame of bastardy. But if there’s no possibility of a child, the woman would be a fool to marry such a man simply to stop wagging tongues. Why should she condemn herself to spend a lifetime with a libertine, simply because people with nothing better to do might gossip about her?”

  This was not what he had hoped to hear.

  He tried again. “What of the injury to my friend’s honor? If he doesn’t offer for her, he must go through life burdened with the reputation of being a man who has ruined a woman of good birth.”

  “I cannot see why that should matter to him,” Eliza retorted. “If he’s as great a rake as you say, I would assume he’s already ruined his share of less fortunate women. Why should one more matter just because she’s of gentle birth?”

  “Your aunt did fill you up with radical notions,” he observed. “But surely you know society takes such distinctions seriously. My friend hasn’t ruined a servant girl, but a woman of his own class.”

  “I see,” Eliza said in that tone that meant she didn’t. “But I still cannot comprehend why that should condemn the lady to a lifetime chained to a rake.”

  Worse and worse! Still, he could not give up. “There is some possibility that the lady might be fond of him, but the devil of it is that my friend is not certain of her feelings. And he has his pride. He does not wish to offer and be rejected.”

  “What a loathsome man!” Eliza said firmly. “To think of his own pride at such a moment.”

  Edward sighed. This was not turning out at all the way he had hoped. “I think you’re being too hard on my friend. At least he is trying to do the decent thing. Indeed I’m rather proud of him. I wouldn’t have expected him to do it.”

  “Well,” said Eliza, softening, “perhaps I am jumping a bit too hastily to a conclusion. My aunt always warned me that doing just that would be my downfall. And if she were here, I know she would tell me I must not assume that everyone thinks the way that I do. Just because I would not like to be forced to marry a rake to please some foolish idea of propriety, it does not follow that your friend’s lady might not be very glad to have him make her an offer.”

  Edward found himself speechless, but Eliza did not seem to notice. Instead she asked, “I don’t suppose you know when your friend was born, do you?”

  “No, I’m afraid your astrologizing is not an option here; there is no way to get any birth information about the couple.”

  “Well, there is a way of casting a horoscope that could be helpful, even without birth information. Have you got your watch?”

  Edward pulled his gold hunter out of its pocket, wondering what Eliza was up to now.

  She consulted it, made note of the time, and then explained there was a kind of chart she could erect whose purpose was to answer a specific question. That kind of chart required nothing except knowledge of the time when the question had arisen.

  With little else to give him encouragement, Edward urged her to draw up the chart, hoping that whatever she saw in it might support his cause. So Eliza went upstairs, fetched her flowered satchel, and then, when she had returned to the library, settled herself at the desk to begin her calculations.

  As she worked, he strolled over to see what it was that she was doing. He looked over her books, one of which he recognized as being a table of latitudes designed for the use of mariners. Then she made numerous mathematical calculations, the purpose of which he could not begin to guess.

  As he watched her, he realized that if he had paid a little more attention to how she constructed her horoscopes when he had first met her, he might have avoided mistaking her for a woman of the lower classes. Clearly she was a very competent mathematician, which implied a degree of education no woman of the lower classes could have received. This discovery only depressed him further. He cursed the lamentable self-absorption that had led
him to miss so important a clue.

  At length, Eliza looked up and announced that the chart was finished and she would now have to ask him some questions to make sure it would serve their purpose and answer his question.

  “Ask away. I am at your service.”

  Eliza took a deep breath and began. “The Ascendant describes the questioner—you—well. It is in Aries, which shows a fiery, energetic man prone to anger. The subject is marriage, which we place in the Seventh House. Libra lies on the cusp of that house, so the lord of the matter is Venus, goddess of love, which confirms the suitability of the chart to a question concerning a marriage. All this suggests that the chart is indeed fit to read.”

  She paused for a moment, then turned back to the chart. “Looking now at the Sun which is co-lord of the querent, we see it lies in the Sixth House, the House of Duty. That, too, fits. The Moon co-rules the question and it lies in the First House and has just made an aspect to Venus, planet of love, which fits again. The question is definitely one of marriage.”

  She looked up at him and smiled a warm, delighted smile. “Edward, I am so glad you asked me to do this chart for you, for it does suggest that perhaps I was too hasty in my original judgment. I asked you many questions but forgot the most important one. You told me that you thought the lady might be fond of him, but you said nothing of your friend’s feelings. Does he perhaps love her, too?”

  “I couldn’t say,” he said quietly. “My friend did not confide in me that far, which is understandable, given what the world knows about my feelings about love.”

  “Then there is your answer, for clearly he does. This chart reveals their marriage would be a matter of love, not merely one of propriety. But to get our final answer of whether it will actually take place we must look at the next aspect that will occur between the lord of the questioner, Mars, and the lord of the question, Venus. The relationship between the two will give us our answer about whether they should marry—”