All You Could Ask For

by Angeline Fortin

  “You play with your nieces?” She gasped, as if it was a fantastical notion. She had thought it unusual the previous day when he had admitted to taking his nephew Tristram to the gardens, but this!

  “I take it your husband did not?”

  “No, Freddie quite dismissed his daughter from his mind when he discovered he did not have a son,” she confessed tersely.

  “More the fool, he.”

  Jack ground his teeth against the longing to thrash the bastard within an inch of his life. Did the man have no concept of the treasures within his home? If there was one thing that Abby and his other sisters had taught him, it was that a happy home life was a thing to be treasured and envied. To be sure, he never expected, nay even necessarily wanted, that for himself but any fool should be able to understand how wonderful children could be, little girls in particular. If he were to have a daughter such as Hannah…He broke off the thought, clearing his throat and returning to the subject that had brought him here.

  “If Hannah were to have spilt on him, what would he have done?” He tossed out the question quietly but watched her face carefully noting the dismay that she couldn’t hide.

  “Nothing.”

  It was a lie. It had to be. Her behavior, the nervousness that her daughter on him might spill, spoke eloquently in his mind. She feared his reaction if an accident were to occur. She feared that he might harm her child as much as she feared a blow when he reached toward her face.

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.” She squared her shoulders. “Because I wouldn’t let him.”

  “You would take his abuse upon yourself to spare your child his ire?”

  Kitty drew in a shaky breath and swallowed it back. He wouldn’t let it go. She could read it in his eyes. He was determined to find the truth he was apparently already aware of. Why would it matter to him, she wondered. Why would he care?

  “Kitty?” he prompted mercilessly. “Your husband beat you, didn’t he?”

  “What does it matter?” she lashed out, hoping that it might make him back off.

  “It matters to me,” he said simply, his golden eyes holding hers with the truth that he refused to back down as she expected him to. “Tell me.”

  “It wouldn’t change anything, Jack.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Fine! Yes, he beat me,” she hissed, angry now that he was forcing her to reveal her humiliations to him. She didn’t want his pity, damn it! Didn’t want it to replace the warmth in his eyes when he looked at her, though Eve would probably insist he was incapable of it. “He beat me out of jealousy if I dared to flirt with another man, to even talk to another man! He would get drunk and hit me, lose money in the markets and hit me, have a bad day and hit me! Soon it didn’t matter anymore; he would just do it because he could! He would…” She sucked in her breath to halt the words that threatened to follow, clapping a hand over her mouth.

  “Tell me,” he insisted harshly, taking her hand in his across the small space. His thumb rotated over the back of it as he urged her again out of her silence. “Say it.”

  “He would force himself upon me afterward as if in a blood lust, as if the abuse aroused him so,” she whispered, shaken that the words had escaped her mouth. She hadn’t even told Eve that. Couldn’t. It was just too demeaning.

  “He would strike her.” He changed the topic to allow her a moment to recover.

  “I wouldn’t let him,” she insisted, as tears began to fall from her eyes. “I would never let him touch her.”

  “Kitty, love, come here,” he said softly, encouraging her to sit on his lap.

  She hesitated a moment before standing and easing herself stiffly onto his knee. He wrapped his arms around her, pressing her head to his shoulder as she cried. Soon her arms were wrapped around his neck as he rocked her from side to side while he stroked her back soothingly. It seemed there was some benefit for a man to have had sisters. He knew, if nothing else, how to comfort a woman in distress.

  “My God, I would gladly trash him within an inch of his life for hurting you, and I will, if he ever tries it again. Why did you never have him arrested? Call the police?” he asked eventually as her sobs decreased. He handed her a crisp, squared handkerchief so she might dry her eyes.

  “‘Husband and wife are one and that one is he’,” she whispered, then stifled a watery chuckle when he stared her blankly. “Sir William Blackstone said that. It basically sums up marriage laws in a nutshell.”

  “You and your quotes,” he grunted. “Why hadn’t you left him before then?”

  “Oh, I tried,” she shrugged fatalistically, “and failed. There wasn’t much I could do. He had the law on his side.” She went on as if the freedom to unburden herself was too difficult to resist, though she shook her head scornfully, “He always said he was sorry. Always said he loved me. Always said it would never happen again…I don’t know why I told you all that.”

  “Kitty,” he began with a gentle caress of her cheek, but she cut him off, pushing his hand away.

  Feeling the fool, she rolled from his embrace and stood a few paces apart, her arms crossed over her chest. What an idiot she was for sharing so much with him! He might have guessed, she might have confirmed, but the very fact that she provided such intimate detail was a mystery to her. Humiliation flooded her so she could barely stand looking at him or having him look upon her. She didn’t want pity from him and surely that was all she would receive from him now. Without doubt he was as uncomfortable as she now and longing for reason to flee the insanity of her life.

  “If you don’t mind, Jack, I think I’d like to take a nap myself before the opera tonight.”

  “Of course,” his voice was curt now, in the face of her dismissal, as if their moment of comfort had never been. “May I escort you this evening?”

  “Richard has already offered.” Naturally, as a gentleman, he would feel the need to offer and she suspected he would be relieved to be freed from the obligation.

  “Of course.”

  Haddington focused on Kitty, mentally urging her to meet his gaze, but she focused about the room or just over his shoulder, refusing to do so. He knew then it had been a mistake to push her into such a confession. The difficulties she had faced had only been pushed back to the surface, her distrust of men once again sharp in her mind. She would be angry with him now for making her say too much.

  However, she had to know that her marriage was not the norm. Surely, she could see from the marriages around her that hers was an aberration. If she couldn’t, he wondered what he could possibly say to her to earn her forgiveness.

  “I would never hurt you, Kitty.”

  “He said that too, Jack.”

  Chapter 17

  Moral indignation is jealousy with a halo.

  ~ H.G. Wells

  The Royal Theater

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  Used to the grandeur of the Metropolitan Opera in New York, Kitty was a bit disappointed by the aged lobby of the Royal Theater, as Richard escorted them through the crowds lingering there on their way to the Earl of Glenrothes’ private box. It was an older facility, of course, with a much smaller occupancy, so truly she should not have expected more. As long as the quality of the performance wasn’t as shabby, that was all that mattered, and she was quite excited to have the opera get underway.

  When she said the previous evening that it had been ages since she had seen the opera, it hadn’t been at all an exaggeration. Freddie hated the opera, not the music so much as the flirting and socializing typical of the intermissions, when men would move from box to box, paying their compliments to all the ladies assembled. Her inability to be outwardly rude and send those flirtatious offenders off on their ears had earned her no little conflict with Freddie and cost her any further trips to the theater. She had experienced them only vicariously through Eve’s detailed letters and her imagination.

  She was eager to see a good show but, looking about, Kitty couldn’t help but wonder where J
ack was. Surely, he was still planning on attending with their party even if he wasn’t their official escort for the evening. She regretted her brusque dismissal of him the moment he had left and after a long nap and refreshing bath was hoping for the chance to apologize and thank him for his kindness. That he had read her so easily, had known of her humiliation just days after meeting, was upsetting. Though he had prodded her for a confession, the choice to reveal all had been her own. She knew she shouldn’t be angry at him for her own weakness when it seemed all he wanted was to comfort her and, it seemed, offer himself as her white knight. So long as it wasn’t pity he offered. She simply couldn’t stand such a thing!

  Certainly, he would never have the chance to put his words into action, but the thought was nice just the same. An apology on her part was certainly in order. But what if he didn’t come tonight so she might do so?

  “Lady Glenrothes. Lady MacKintosh,” a voice called out, bringing their group to a halt as they were waved at imperiously by an elderly lady holding court near the sweeping staircase.

  Exchanging a startled look with Abby, Kitty froze. In all her imaginings of pretending to be her sister, it had never occurred to her she would have to talk to anyone pretending to be her, as they had when they were children. From the look on Abby’s face, it hadn’t occurred to her either. Pasting pleased smiles on their faces, they made their way across the lobby, smiling and nodding along the way.

  “Who is she?” Kitty hissed to Abby through her smile.

  “The Duchess of Roxburghe,” Abby whispered back out of the corner of her mouth. “She the reigning hostess in town and Francis is quite a favorite of hers. Damn, I hope she doesn’t catch on, but she is a wily old…your grace!” Abby beamed, and swept a deep curtsey, prompting Kitty and Moira to do the same while Richard made his bow.

  The duchess turned to Kitty. “Ah, Lady Glenrothes. I haven’t seen you out and about much since your…surprising marriage to the earl. Where is he tonight?” She scanned the room beyond them.

  Kitty took a deep breath. “My husband isn’t feeling quite the thing tonight and elected to remain at home,” she lied, surprised how easily it came to her lips. “He just returned from Glen Cairn while it was raining and feels he might have caught a bit of ague…your grace,” she added, when Moira poked her in the ribs.

  “How terrible.” The duchess squinted at her through her monocle with a frown but continued on pleasantly. “Are you looking forward to the performance, my lady?”

  “Actually, your grace,” she smiled, pleased with herself for remembering to add the title—these nobles and all their airs!—“I saw The Nautch Girl at the Savoy last year, but Moira so badly wanted to come I just had to attend.”

  The duchess’s attention moved on to Moira, much to Kitty’s relief. “Lady Moira, where has your father been these many years? I can’t remember the last time we saw him or your grandfather in town.”

  “That has been my argument for years, your grace,” her friend answered, thankfully freeing Kitty from the conversation. “I have been trying, to no avail but, thankfully, they have agreed to allow Lady Glenrothes to sponsor me in the Season, first here and then in London next spring.”

  “You could not ask for a better sponsor,” the duchess nodded, as her gaze strayed back to Kitty but for only a moment. “But a Season, Lady Moira? Why haven’t you married as yet? You must be…how old now?”

  Moira’s mouth opened, and closed with a snap, drawing Abby back to the fore as she made their excuses, insisting that they must make their way to their box. “Well, that was…”

  “Uncomfortable,” Kitty ended.

  “Rude,” Moira insisted. “I know age and rank allow for much, but really!” she huffed, as they entered their box through its red velvet curtains.

  Richard took their wraps and handed them off to the waiting bewigged footman while they stood in the rear of the box, socializing with one another and visitors who stopped by.

  The other MacKintosh siblings from the previous evening arrived then, adding to the hubbub in the box, and it was several minutes before everyone managed to settle in for the upcoming performance. A footman helped seat the ladies at the front of the box and offered opera glasses. Seated between Moira and Fiona, Kitty chatted amicably with them while sipping lightly on the champagne yet another footman offered them.

  Like Moira, this opera was a first for Fiona MacKintosh, Francis’ youngest sibling, who at seventeen was not even officially out in Society yet. She was a lovely girl with dark hair and changeable olive-green eyes, similar to her eldest brother’s but, with ten older brothers, clearly the girl had grown up without anyone tempering her words.

  “What a riotous mess,” she exclaimed as she leaned over the edge of the balcony.

  “Don’t hang too far over the edge, Blossom,” her brother Connor chided. “If you fall into that crowd, you’ll never make it out alive.”

  “Clearly not the Met,” was Kitty’s dry response to the appreciative whistles and catcalls that welled from the crowd below, doubling in intensity when Moira joined Fiona in peering over the edge of their box to take in the mass of people below.

  Unlike the Metropolitan Opera house where every seat went to the highest bidder, this theater still maintained the concept of a pit on the main floor. The noise, therefore, that rose up to them on the second level of boxes was still voluminous and relayed animation more appropriate to a bullfight than to an opera, in her mind. She wondered if they would settle in once the performance began or if the cacophony were to be the norm through the night.

  “It’s so exciting!” Fiona beamed, as she and Moira, who seemed to share the same unbridled enthusiasm for the event, took up their opera glasses to scan the theater.

  As Moira looked about through her glasses, she shared Kitty’s speculations aloud while Abby laughed with her over the antics below. Their comments turned to the costumes of those in attendance this evening as they critiqued the gowns and headwear the ladies had on display. Fiona seemed to have no problem pointing out the worst of them.

  “Gads, do you see that horrid display of ostrich feathers on that old biddy Lady Argyle over there? She must have plucked the whole damned bird!” or “Speaking of birds, have you ever seen such plumage as that one over there?”

  Biting back a chuckle of amusement, Kitty turned to the boxes Fiona so rudely pointed out while Abby tried to instill some semblance of manners into the girl. She would certainly have her hands full preparing the youngest MacKintosh to make her curtsey to Society. Or would it soon be Eve’s duty to try to curb the girl’s thoughtless tongue? She smiled, trying to picture that battle.

  As she scanned the theater, some heads turned in their direction and she saw many ladies and gentlemen in attendance acknowledging her with a nod or wave. Uncertain how to respond, she just nodded coolly, as she thought Eve might, in return and moved her gaze on. In one of the lower boxes, a bevy of brightly clad ladies leaned over the edge of their box, displaying their cleavage to any who cared to look, whistling and calling to men on the floor.

  Demimonde, she supposed with a shrug, looking for their next protector or such. Hopefully, Fiona wouldn’t catch sight of them for if she did, who knew what might escape her unbridled tongue. One would never see such a display in New York, of course. The Knickerbocker set was much too uptight to allow such a base display in their theater.

  She sniffed and was about to look away when she caught sight of Jack in their box. She raised her glasses inquisitively. Though he was in the shadows toward the rear, nearly out of her view, she could clearly see him talking to a stunning brunette who touched his arms and shoulders constantly as they spoke.

  He didn’t seem to mind her attentions at all. Indeed, he bent and whispered something in the woman’s ear, setting her off on a wild peal of laughter before she pulled him down and kissed him passionately, her open mouth visible even from this distance.

  “Oh look,” Fiona cried, noticing as well. “There’s Haddington
over there. Gads! And you all say my behavior is inappropriate for a public venue. Do you think that woman is a courtesan?”

  Kitty nearly choked in shock at the girl’s inappropriate comment and dropped the glasses with a shudder, looking away. The sight brought her to the verge of physical illness, but she chastised herself vehemently against the antagonism that flooded her. It should not matter to her whether Jack kissed every woman in that box. He was naught but a new friend, an acquaintance really, despite their too intimate conversation. Despite their too brief kiss. He was an incorrigible flirt. An inveterate rogue. She was well aware of that. He was like that with her and Moira alike. Why would he be any different with others?

  Still, it shouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter, she insisted to herself, trying to squash her irritation. She was a married woman after all, and hardly the type to have an affair even if Haddington was a most available bachelor.

  Groaning into her program, she mentally kicked herself, calling herself a liar. It did matter. She did care. She didn’t know how or why but she just wanted to leap across the theater and slap the woman silly for touching her man.

  My God, she’d gone completely mad.

  * * *

  By the time the lights came up for the first intermission, Kitty had called herself ten times a fool over her jealous thoughts about Jack and his apparent mistresses, for she knew that is what it was. Jealousy. The problem was, despite her relationship with Freddie, and contrary to the impulsive flinching when a man raised a hand to her, Kitty didn’t believe that all men were abusers and beaters of women. Her father was an excellent example. In a time when it was a man’s right under law to chastise his wife as he saw fit, Lelan Preston never raised a hand against his wife…or his children. Oh, sure he raised his voice, loud and often, but he was Irish after all and possessed of all the temper that went with it. But never a hand.