Beloved

by Stella Cameron

  “Certainly I can,” she told him. “Come to me. Both of you. We need to test how well we’ll do together. Then I’ll explain exactly what our plans will be. They’ll work. Trust me.”

  Father dropped down beside her on the divan and hauled up her skirt.

  Precious behaved as if her private parts had not been revealed to both men in the room. She patted the divan and beckoned to Pomeroy. “There’s plenty to go round,” she told him.

  He longed to rip off her clothes and beat her white skin until she begged to be released, begged to be allowed to forget she’d ever had the temerity to threaten him. Instead, he did as she asked and sat beside her.

  “There,” she said. “That’s better. This bodice is too tight.” Father guffawed and squeezed her breast. “Long time since I came across dugs like these. Particularly a pair offered so freely. I bet you’ve taught more than one chap a thing or two he didn’t know.”

  She eyed him knowingly. “Only after a few chaps taught me some things I didn’t know.”

  “A clever mouth,” Father said, slipping a jeweled button from its hole. “I like that. Now you can teach us, right, Pom?” He winked at Pomeroy.

  Renewed interest sprang between Pomeroy’s legs. “And perhaps we can add to the young lady’s repertoire,” he said, helping with the buttons.

  Precious rested her chin on her chest to watch while her huge breasts were revealed. Their pink centers were the size of little plates, each one offering a large, pouting berry.

  Pomeroy took a nipple between finger and thumb and pinched.

  Precious gasped and writhed.

  Lord Wokingham played with the other breast.

  Pomeroy’s head bumped his father’s when they bent to fasten their teeth and suck.

  Never at a loss for means by which to spice the event, Pomeroy’s father dragged Precious’s skirts around her waist and pushed her flat on her back with her knees bent at the edge of the divan. He emptied the remaining contents of a glass of Madeira over the girl’s belly and curly, red bush, and grinned up at Pomeroy. “Thirsty?” he asked.

  Pomeroy fell to lapping the wine, never releasing his handful of Precious’s breast. She bucked and laughed—and spread her legs.

  Lord Wokingham chose to take his drink from a deeper place. He guzzled noisily between slick folds, discarding his robe as he did so.

  The blue gown joined the robe. Pomeroy needed nothing more than to push his trousers past his knees.

  She was tireless. And she did know a thing or two. His father preferred his pleasures in comfort—on his back—which suited Pomeroy. Wedged between the two of them on the floor, Precious grunted and squealed, tossed and begged—for more and more.

  Pomeroy was happy to oblige.

  When he finally fell back, wet with his own sweat, and with hers, he rolled to lie on the carpet and listen to his father thrust upward into her. The old man was game, but he took longer these days. Pomeroy smiled. Fair enough—the girl was welcome to the extra pleasure she so loudly enjoyed.

  At last the groaning and shrieking ceased. They stretched out, side by side, breathing heavily.

  Pomeroy turned, unable to waste a moment of fondling Precious’s heavy breasts. “So,” he said, and bent to enjoy a long, slow suckle that brought fresh cries to her lips. “So, what do you want, Precious? Really want?” As if he didn’t know. She wanted what every unmarried female in London wanted—to marry him.

  “First I want to help ensure our future,” Precious said, holding up her breast to help Pomeroy’s exploration. “I know things.”

  “So you’ve shown us.”

  “Other things. About all kinds of people. I’ve got a source now. Ella Rossmara—or whatever her name really is—will bring us what we need. She’ll have to if she wants to save herself.”

  Lord Wokingham propped his mussed head on a hand and looked down at the girl. “How will you manage that?”

  “You’ll find out.”

  “Tell us now.”

  Her face hardened. “I’ll tell you when I’ve done what needs to be done. Not before. And not before you give me what I want. To make sure you don’t think of backing out of the bargain.”

  Pomeroy sighed. “Let me guess. You want a husband. You want marriage.”

  “Exactly.” She made her blue eyes very round. “I want a respected place in Society. And I must say it appeals to me to have that wretched Ella at my beck and call. The men look at her as if she’s something special. She won’t feel so special when she has to do as she’s told—by me.”

  Pomeroy could almost pity the creature her delusions. But there was no doubt that she had an idea, and it might be very useful. “Why don’t you tell us exactly how you expect to accomplish all this. And what you’ll expect from us in return. Then we’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

  “I’d say you’ve already seen,” Precious said, sitting up and pressing her breasts to her knees. “This is how it’ll be. With my help. Pommy gets to marry Ella, who’ll bring us all the money we’ll ever need.”

  Pomeroy narrowed his eyes and thrust a hand between her legs.

  She pushed him away. “And I get to be a lady.” Turning to Pomeroy’s father, she said, “You’ve been a widower far too long, my lord. It’s time for you to take a new wife.”

  Chapter Nine

  “O verreaction,” Papa pronounced. “That’s it. Pure and simple. You are both overreacting.”MMM “Struan,” Mama said gently. “I rather think it may be you who are overreacting. You’ve talked of little else since last night.”

  He threw up his arms and paced back and forth across Ella’s little sitting room.

  “Where could it have come from?” Ella asked, not for the first time by any means.

  Mama smoothed the piece of red chiffon on her knee. “I wanted to believe Devlin’s theory to be true. But no lady would wear a torn scrap like this in her hair. It is unbound.” She fell back in her chair and stared into the fire. “A cruel jest.”

  “A coincidence,” Papa thundered. “You aren’t thinking at all. Torn from the hem of a gown, I tell you. Trodden upon by some clumsy oaf and discarded without its owner even being aware, I’d wager.”

  Ella scrubbed at her face. “It appeared, Papa. It simply appeared.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do. We would have seen it, just as Devlin did. It is so garish.”

  “No one knows about… about what happened,” Mama said, closing the chiffon inside her fist. “Those who did are either gone from the country or in prison.”

  “Or members of this family,” Papa said morosely. “Or in very high or very low places. And there was quite a crush around us when it happened. Anyone could have dropped it.”

  “Or someone who wished to press a point,” Mama said. She frowned at Papa. “Given what passed between you and your visitors the—”

  “No,” Papa said sharply. “Too obvious, my dear.”

  “What?” Ella asked.

  “What are you talking about? Who?” Mama shrugged and shook her head. “Nothing, Ella. I am simply overprotective of you. And perhaps overconcerned, too. We must put this behind us.”

  Ella caught Papa’s sleeve. “You just said it was all a coincidence.”

  “And so it is,” he told her. “I was only referring to those present at the time. Even if some were likely to be among our acquaintances now—in London—they could not possibly remember you as that child.”

  Couldn’t they? She was dark, the whisperers said. Like a gypsy. The Countess Ballard had remarked upon how unusual she was. Papa might be right, but he might equally well be wrong. Someone might remember. And someone might have a reason for wanting her to know they did. To warn her? Because they wanted her to…to go away?

  “Ella?” Mama said. “You must not fret so, my dear. This is all supposed to be fun. A wonderful time. And it will be. We must see about the gown for your ball at Pall Mall.”

  “It will not be red chiffon,” Ella said. She pluck
ed at her full, leaf-green skirts. “Even the thought of such a thing makes me weak.”

  “Of course it shall not be red chiffon,” Papa agreed. “Oh, but of course it most certainly shall.” The fire continued to hold Mama’s attention, but her fine features tightened with resolve. “Absolutely. Red will become you.”

  Ella flung aside the embroidery hoop she’d been carrying. “I detest red. I will always detest red. Have you lost your mind, Mama?”

  “That will do, young lady. Apologize to your mother.”

  “No,” Mama said, shaking her head. “She does not have to apologize. I should have explained myself at once. By wearing the very thing that someone may—please note that I say may—wish to use as a threat against you, that threat will become as toothless as an ancient dog—and as dangerous.”

  Only the tick of the small ormolu clock on the mantel broke the silence that followed.

  “Don’t you agree?” Mama turned her bright amber eyes upon them. “Ella will look lovely and she will toss any ill will back into the face of its perpetrator?”

  The chance to reply was lost in Crabley’s noisy entrance. He coughed and puffed, showing his annoyance at having to climb the stairs. “Her grace, the Dowager Duchess of Franchot, my lord,” he announced to Papa. “I suggested Her Grace might await you below, but—”

  “But I am not so decrepit that I can no longer hobble up a flight of stairs.” Tiny, white-haired, rod-backed, and formidable, the dowager duchess progressed into the room. Garbed in unrelieved black, she raised her ivory-headed cane and pointed it at Crabley. “That is more than I can say of you, my man. Never saw a servant take so long to make his way up a few stairs. Disgrace, that’s what I call it. You’re feeding your flunkies too well, Justine. But what else would I expect. You never had the sense you were born with.”

  “Good afternoon, Grandmama.”

  The dowager peered at Mama and repeated, “Good afternoon, Grandmama,” in a parody of her granddaughter’s voice. “Is that the best you can do, girl? I’m probably a hair away from me coffin and you can’t as much as kiss me? Hmph.” She waved Crabley from the room. “Fetch tea. And tell my companion to remain downstairs. Take her refreshment there. We won’t be remaining long. I have a great deal to do at Pall Mall.”

  Mama got to her feet and placed an arm around her grandmother’s rigidly held shoulders. She bent to kiss a papery cheek. “You will put each of us in a coffin, Grandmama,” she said, not quite suppressing a smile. “You are indefatigable. Sit in my chair.”

  “Nonsense,” the dowager said, glaring. “You sit in your chair, madam. You are the cripple.”

  Ella did not dare look at Papa, who didn’t allow an instant to pass before saying, sharply, “Kindly do not refer to Justine as a cripple, Your Grace. You know it is not true, and it offends us all.”

  “Piffle.” The dowager turned her sharp scrutiny upon Ella. “Well. Met someone yet, have you?”

  “Someone?”

  “Don’t shilly-shally with me, my girl. You’re here to find a husband. The sooner that’s accomplished, the better. The longer you wait, the narrower the field, and the better the chance of falling into a bounder’s bed.”

  “Grandmama!”

  “Silence, Justine,” the dowager ordered. “We are all grown up, here. You, of all people, should be comfortable with anything I may decide to say. You and your wretched book. I never thought to see the day when a granddaughter of mine would publish a book. The shame. It’s a wonder I’m still breathing. And a book on that subject! Oh, the shame.” She shook her head, and flames in the fireplace shone on jet beads beneath her bonnet brim.

  “Ella has attended a single event,” Papa told the old lady, “We have in fact received one offer for her hand.”

  Ella’s lips parted in horror. “We have?” The dowager proceeded to a straight-backed chair and perched on the edge of its Aubusson tapestry seat. “This is most encouraging.”

  “It is not encouraging at all!” Ella burst out. “Pomeroy Wokingham is hardly—”

  “Pomeroy Wokingham?” The stick rose in Papa’s direction. “Make certain I do not hear that name again. A prancing popinjay. Like his father. Despicable man.”

  “I didn’t say we were considering the proposal,” Papa said sheepishly. “I merely wanted to keep you apprised of events, as it were.”

  “I wish to return to Scotland,” Ella said.

  An awful hush fell.

  Ella pointed her nose in the direction of the molded, pale pink ceiling. “In fact, I think we should all go home—to our various homes—forthwith. Before any more time is wasted on this pointless undertaking.”

  “What is she saying?” the dowager whispered, as if Ella were demented and likely to turn into a wild thing at any moment. “Has something happened that you’re not telling me about? Has some male person offended her—forced himself upon her?”

  “Oh, fie! Not nearly enough.” The words were out before Ella could contain them.

  Another cavernous silence followed. Then Mama’s grandparent pounded the carpet with her cane. “I might have known it,” she said. “Like mother, like daughter. And like father, like daughter. She’s as impulsive as both of you.” She looked from Papa to Mama. “Who is the man who has compromised her? Compromised and abandoned her?”

  “No man!” Ella’s parents said in unison.

  The dowager eyed Ella. “Is that what you say, gel?”

  For the briefest of instants Ella considered telling the truth, that she loved a man and could never love another. “There is no man who has compromised me.” To admit the truth would accomplish nothing, other than trouble for Saber.

  Crabley reentered the room, a heavy silver tray in his hands and Rose, Ella’s maid, at his elbow. Rose, as small and quick of movement as the dowager, busied herself with the tea things.

  She began to pour milk into Sevres cups. “Ella can do that,” the dowager said, gesturing for the fair-haired girl to leave.

  Rose glanced at Ella, saw her encouraging smile, and quickly lowered her eyes. Crabley had already departed. Rose withdrew, almost colliding with Saber in the process.

  He carried his hat and still wore a long, caped overcoat. If he saw his grandmother, he gave no sign. Saber looked piercingly at Ella. “Forgive me for intruding,” he said. His long dark hair brushed the collar of the black coat. “I promised I’d come, but I don’t believe we discussed the time?”

  He had promised no such thing. He’d walked away from her on the previous evening as if he’d forgotten she existed at all.

  “You aren’t intruding,” she told him, scarcely able to breathe. “How could you?”

  It was the first time in four years that she had seen him in daylight. His stark countenance dominated the room. White linen gleamed against the black overcoat and the dark clothing he wore beneath. There was about his features a saturnine slant, a hollowness cast beneath his full bottom lip, his high cheekbones. The scars, partially hidden by his hair, were an insult upon so compelling a face.

  “Well,” the dowager said. “My grandson, Saber. Returned from the grave, or so it seems.”

  He turned to her, obviously noting her presence for the first time, and bowed slightly. “Grandmama. You look well.”

  “I am. And you look as handsome as the devil—more so. Pity about the wounds. Why wasn’t I told?”

  “Because none of us knew,” Papa said shortly. “Take your coat off, man. I’ll ring for another cup.”

  Ella looked into Saber’s green eyes.

  He stared back—and made no attempt to remove his coat. Papa cleared his throat.

  Mama got up and began pouring tea. “You still take it as you did, Grandmama? With—”

  “Oh, don’t chatter, Justine. A woman as old as I doesn’t suddenly decide to take her tea differently. The very idea. Saber, you must know all the eligible men in London.”

  With evident reluctance, he turned from Ella. “I used to know them, Grandmama,” he said.

&n
bsp; “Just like your father,” she told him. “He was deliberately evasive, too.”

  Saber’s father had married Justine and Calum’s aunt. Both had died at an early age and had apparently not been among the dowager’s favorites. Not that the dowager admitted to having favorites at all.

  “You do know these men,” she persisted. “Of course you do. Or you know of them. Their identities, at least. Their pedigrees. Their holdings. The type of thing we have to know in order to decide if they’re worth bothering with.”

  Saber’s high brow furrowed. “Exactly why do we want to know?”

  “I am surrounded by idiots! Because we have to select a husband for Ella, of course. Why else would we wish to know?”

  Ella studied Saber closely. The only sign of emotion was a clenching of his fingers on the brim of his hat.

  “Of course you understand what I mean, Saber. That’s settled, then.” The dowager duchess accepted tea from Justine. “You will start tomorrow.”

  Saber set the hat down carefully on an inlaid marquetry table. “I’m sure you intend to explain the nature of my duties, Grandmama.”

  “Ella is a prize,” the old lady announced in ringing tones. “She is very much like myself at her age. Strong. Determined. A backbone to be contended with. And she’s beautiful, to boot.”

  Stunned, Ella could only gape. “Close your mouth,” the dowager ordered.

  Ella did so with a snap.

  “Any man who gains her as his wife will be more fortunate than he deserves. Our job is to ensure that the least undeserving candidate wins the prize.”

  Ella raised her eyes to Saber’s face. He looked steadily back.

  “Which is exactly where you come in, young Avenall.”

  “Yes, Grandmama,” he said, still holding Ella’s eyes with his own.

  “I do not want Ella to go into marriage as I did—without the benefit of choice.”

  Mama made a noise. “Speak up, Justine,” the dowager demanded. “Don’t snuffle, girl. Speak your mind.”

  “Oh, no,” Mama said. “It wasn’t…Yes, it was. What I wished to say was important. I don’t seem to recall your being concerned about my choices before I was married. Except that you did not think I should marry at all.”