The Gentleman's Daughter

by Bianca M. Schwarz

  Emily looked up at her rescuer, who was using his pocket knife to free her from her bonds, and thanked her lucky stars he had come to their aid. Once free, she took his offered hand and even found a smile.

  “Thank you so much for helping us.” Her voice broke, her mistreated cheeks burning, but she managed to smile through it.

  The young man smiled back reassuringly. “You are safe now, Miss March.”

  Despite the ghastly circumstances, Emily couldn’t help but notice just how beautiful he was, tall and manly, with lovely green eyes. Her golden god helped her gently off the bed and brushed the wild tangle of blond hair out of her face. The caring gesture prompted Emily to topple straight into his arms and sob on his shoulder.

  MAX HAD FOLLOWED OSTLEY FROM Warthon Castle. His grandfather’s new confidant had departed rather suddenly, raising Max’s suspicions. He entered the inn through the kitchen door, trying to keep an eye on the demented bastard without his noticing, then heard a woman scream from upstairs. They weren’t the lusty screams one might expect in a roadside inn, but shrill, frightened screams for help. Taking the stairs three at a time, Max only stopped long enough outside the room to ascertain that one woman screamed in pain, the other for help, and the man’s voice was Ostley’s. He opened the door to a scene he might have arranged for the edification of his guests at the club. Only this was real, and he found absolutely nothing titillating about it. Ostley had one woman pinned over the side of the bed and was spanking her while Sir Henry’s young daughter, trapped on the bed between Ostley and the wall, tethered to a bedpost, kicked at him desperately and shouted at the top of her lungs.

  “Help! Stop it, you fiend, stop it! Oh please help, someone, help!”

  Max raised his hand to silence the girl and commanded, “Ostley, cease.”

  When Ostley ignored his command, he scanned the room for something he could use to subdue the baron. The water jug seemed his only choice, so he grabbed it, ordered Miss March out of the way, and smashed it over Ostley’s idiotic head. Then he pulled the imbecile off the woman on the bed and dug the tip of his boot into Ostley’s side to make sure he was knocked out.

  That was when Max took his first close look at Sir Henry’s daughter. Emily March was the very picture of female perfection, even in her frightened, disheveled state. Of course she was entirely too young and too innocent for his taste, but he could not deny her beauty.

  Max searched his pockets for his knife to cut her bonds. Once she was freed, he held out his hand to help her off the bed and watched the smile bloom on her lovely face. The smile was guileless and open, and spoke of nothing but trust. And then she proved that trust by walking straight into his arms and sobbing her relief into his chest. The gesture made him feel ashamed to ever have entertained a thought of using this girl to exact revenge on Sir Henry. As he folded his arms around her to return her embrace, Maximilian Warthon swore a solemn oath that nothing ugly would ever again touch her life.

  Then the door crashed open, and Max just knew Sir Henry’s pistol was squarely aimed between his shoulder blades. He thought of raising his arms in surrender, but before he could, Emily March lifted her head off his shoulder and addressed her father with clear reprimand in her voice. “Papa, you are pointing that thing at the wrong man. The golden god saved us.”

  Max took that as his cue to step away from the girl, but couldn’t help chuckling at her irreverent naivety. He turned so he might face both of them. “I think I’d better introduce myself. Lord Didcomb, at your service.”

  HENRY WAS NOT AT ALL pleased with the scene in front of him, especially considering what had happened the last time he’d had the opportunity to observe Lord Didcomb. But he lowered his pistol when his daughter stepped into his arms and pointed at the unconscious Ostley on the floor. “That horrible creature over there said he would hurt you if I didn’t come quietly. Then, once we were in here, he went on and on about you and my mother. He tied my hands and even hit me.”

  Henry reluctantly admitted to himself he would have to shake the young lord’s hand in gratitude. However, Emily’s next words pushed Lord Didcomb and his proclivities to the back of his mind.

  “And when Isabella whipped him with her riding crop to get him off me, he beat her.”

  Isabella was here too? But where? And she had been hurt. The blood froze in Henry’s veins. “Isabella. Where are you?”

  Emily pulled the door closed to reveal Isabella behind it. She stood propped up against the wall, her eyes shut tight to stop the tears from escaping, doing her best to control her breathing.

  Henry took one look and pulled her into his arms. She shook from head to toe and felt stiff and brittle. Speaking in low tones, he hoped to reassure her. “Isabella, my darling, my love. Where are you hurt?”

  She relaxed a little when she recognized his voice, but her teeth still chattered when she answered. “My stomach, he punched my stomach, and then he hit my, my …”

  Emily explained for her. “The fiend hit her bottom so hard his hand must sting. Papa, can we shoot him, please? I bet he beats his horses too. And I really don’t like that my mother has to live with this cretin.”

  Henry stroked Isabella’s back and felt her slowly relax against him. He spoke to Emily over her head. “No, Poppet, unfortunately we can’t just shoot him. He is a baron. We’ll have to find a magistrate willing to prosecute him for kidnapping, but even then he’d probably just pay a fine.”

  Lord Didcomb stepped a little closer and offered, “If you would allow me to deal with Ostley, I can offer you my personal assurance that no further harm will come to you and yours, or I will kill him myself.”

  At that moment Ostley groaned from the floor, and Henry, mostly concerned with taking care of his daughter and the woman still shaking in his arms, fixed the young man firmly in his sight. “I will hold you to your word, Didcomb.”

  Didcomb bowed and turned to pick up the sorry excuse for a human from the floor, but Henry added, “We will continue on to London to avoid any kind of talk. Will I have an opportunity to meet with you there to properly express my gratitude?”

  Didcomb bowed again. “I look forward to it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  THE THREE OF THEM STOOD EMBRACING ONE another after Didcomb had manhandled Ostley out of the room. Isabella gradually calmed; Emily shed a few more tears, but soon blew her nose noisily and declared herself all right; and Henry offered a silent prayer of thanks that things hadn’t gone any further than they did.

  Eventually Isabella, still huddled into Henry’s shoulder, turned to Emily. “Emily, dear, you shouldn’t have run away. My not being able to marry your father has nothing to do with you.”

  Emily looked at her quizzically. “If it’s not me, then what is the reason?”

  Isabella swallowed hard. Aware Henry was at least as interested in her answer as Emily was, she hoped a half-truth would be enough explanation for both of them. “I’m not fit to be a wife. I’m no longer a virgin.”

  Henry’s response would have been reassuring if that had been the entire issue. He gently stroked her shoulder and placed a kiss to the crown of her head. Emily looked at her for a moment as if that possibility had never occurred to her, then nodded wisely. “Aunt Hortense keeps telling us how important one’s virginity is.” She thought about it, then asked her father, “Do you really care about Isabella not being a virgin?”

  Henry weighed his words carefully, not wanting to give Emily the impression her innocence didn’t matter, but also very aware Isabella had tensed while waiting for his answer. “No, it would be very hypocritical of me to condemn the woman I love for an indiscretion when all the world knows I’ve had so many. But most men would, Poppet, so I understand why Isabella didn’t want to tell me.”

  He again kissed the crown of Isabella’s head and murmured into her ear, “It doesn’t make me love you any less.” That elicited a sob, prompting Henry to hold Isabella closer still.

  Emily, however, took the sob to be one o
f relief and patted both her father and her presumed stepmother on the back. “There, you see, all’s well that ends well.”

  Henry’s chuckle at her use of Shakespeare served as Emily’s cue to extricate herself from the three-way embrace. The nervous energy still coursing through her after the attack made it impossible to stay still any longer.

  At that moment Thomas knocked on the door frame and announced, “The Dowager and Lady Kistel just arrived, sir.”

  Emily brightened considerably. “Oh good. I don’t know why I thought I could live without Grossmama, she always knows exactly how to feel about things.” Heading for the door she added, “And I better find Tim. That nasty baron hit him too.”

  Relieved his grandmother was on hand to take care of Emily, Henry smiled his approval and called to Thomas. “Go with Miss Emily. And tell the landlady we’ll be staying the night.”

  Thomas rushed after Emily, who could be heard excitedly calling out: “Grossmama, Grossmama, the golden god smashed a water jug over the nasty baron’s head.”

  CLOSING THE DOOR AFTER EMILY, Henry pulled Isabella close once more. They stood like this for a while before Henry asked, “Do you still love him?”

  The mere suggestion she might love another shocked Isabella. She slowly shook her head against his shoulder.

  Henry let out a relieved breath. “Will you tell me about it?”

  Her shoulders slumped and she stepped back half a step. “It seems I owe you that much.” She finally looked up at him, and his heart sank. There was such profound sadness in her eyes, he suddenly lost all confidence that the obstacle between them could be overcome.

  “You don’t have to tell me now, or in this place.” He gestured to the remaining evidence of struggle in the room.

  But Isabella shook her head, walked to the window, and opened it. “No, I think this is the perfect time and place to tell you.” She leaned her upper body on the broad windowsill, supporting herself on her elbows, and looked outward.

  Realizing she couldn’t sit on her ill-treated bottom, Henry went to lean out the window next to her. The field the room overlooked was bathed in golden light from the low-hanging summer sun. They couldn’t see the sunset from their vantage point, but the long shadows cast by the inn and the trees around it told them there were mere minutes remaining in the day.

  Watching the lengthening shadows, Isabella observed, “There is such peace and beauty in this world, yet man is capable of such ugly violence.”

  “Indeed. That’s why you like Byron.”

  “Yes.”

  When she said nothing more, Henry decided to prompt her. “Did he force you?”

  A visible shiver went down her spine, but she kept her eyes firmly on the beauty outside. “Not the first time.”

  Her words reverberated in his head and filled him with dread at what she would reveal, but he kept still and waited for her to continue.

  “I’d known George all my life; he was the vicar’s son and my brother’s best friend. We dug for worms together when we were children and later occupied the same schoolroom at the vicarage. I joined my brother there after I overtook our governess in skill with my painting. The vicar was an accomplished artist, and I was eager to learn. On the day it first happened, I walked to the vicarage by myself because Freddy had come down with a fever, and since I was to go to London for my season soon, I didn’t want to miss my lesson.

  “As it turned out, the vicar, Mr. Bradshore, had come down with the same malady as my brother, but George was there and working on the problem his father had set him. I’d been set a task too. I set up and worked until I became aware of George staring at me. I wondered whether I had a smudge on my nose and made a face at him. He just grinned, told me I’d turned out very pretty, and asked if I’d been kissed yet. I shook my head no, but I’d been wondering what it would feel like, so I let him when he bent down and kissed me. I didn’t mind it at first, but then he pried my lips open with his tongue and stuck it so far in my mouth I could barely breathe. Next I felt his hand on my breast. I was still curious, so I didn’t push him away or tell him to stop. We were in the back parlor, away from the kitchen, visitors, and any other distraction, so there was little fear of discovery. Before I knew what was happening, I was on the floor and George was pushing inside of me. It hurt, but his tongue was still in my mouth, so I couldn’t cry out, and then it was over before I could gather myself enough to even think of what to do. George got up, closed his placket, grinned at me, and said, ‘That was brilliant, Izzy.’ Then he walked out, leaving me lying there on the floor.”

  Henry hissed out between clenched teeth, “The disgusting vermin.”

  But Isabella only shook her head, indicating he needed to let her tell her story, and kept her eyes on the peaceful scene in front of them.

  “I cleaned up as best I could, using my petticoats as rags, and then walked home. By the time I got to my room I was in hysterics. Sally helped me bathe and burned my soiled clothes so no one would know about my shame. She’s been my confidante ever since, but even she doesn’t know what happened two days later.”

  Henry clenched his fists and braced himself to hear it.

  “The next day I was in the upstairs parlor when George came to call. My mother assumed he had come to visit Freddy, but he had come to call on my father. Papa came up a while later to announce George had asked for my hand in marriage, and he’d given him his blessing. I was in complete shock. Of course I’m aware most would consider it the only thing to do, marrying the man they had allowed to take their virginity, but I had spent all night thinking about the situation. To my mind, the one bright spot was that George likely wouldn’t want to get married, so at least I wouldn’t have to endure him again. Now I was confronted with a lifetime of encounters like the one on the rectory floor, and all I could do was burst into tears and flee the room. I heard later my father had excused me to George after my mother had put her foot down and told Papa my season was already arranged and I was sure to attract a better prospect than a mere vicar’s son, no matter he was fifth in line to a viscountcy.”

  Henry had a sudden recollection of the Viscount Ridgeworth startling Isabella on the beach in Brighton. She had called him George. He felt sick with trepidation remembering how she had trembled the entire time she had talked to the man.

  “My father bowed to my mother’s wishes, but made it clear at dinner that night he was very much in favor of the union. I was mortified, but assumed as long as I didn’t give George an opportunity to propose, I would be able to escape his physical attentions.”

  Isabella took a deep breath to steady herself before she recounted the rest of her tale. “Freddy remained abed for the rest of the week, and I used that excuse not to go back to the vicarage. But it was spring and I wanted to paint, so I took my board and my stool and looked for motifs around my father’s estate.”

  Another shudder went through her body, but with her eyes fixed on the horizon, she continued. “George found me in one of the far meadows, where I’d set up to paint. But he didn’t propose like I had imagined he would. Instead he dragged me into the forest. I told him to let me go, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He said it didn’t become me to play hard to get, and reminded me of the pointlessness of shutting the barn door after the horse had bolted. Besides, I had raised no objection the first time, which he took as permission to do it again. When I told him I didn’t want to and that it hurt the first time, he laughed at me and asked if I didn’t know it always hurt the first time, and not to be such a ninny.”

  Henry knew what she was about to tell him and wished he could take her in his arms and tell her he didn’t need to hear it, that she could spare herself the telling. But he had also known, since she had started the confession, that she had to get it out. He had seen it enough times with his soldiers on the Peninsula: the telling was part of the healing.

  Isabella’s hands shook, but she carried on. “I told him I didn’t want to do it again, but he trapped me between a tree and himse
lf, and told me to stop worrying, that he would marry me and it wouldn’t hurt this time. I knew it wasn’t true the moment he pushed inside me, and begged him to stop, but he just told me to relax, and then he didn’t respond to my pleas at all and just kept rutting into me. It took him longer this time and it hurt far worse. By the time he was done and was pulling his breeches back on, I was crying and telling him I never wanted to do it again and to stay away from me. He looked at me as if I was a carnival freak and said, ‘Jesus, Izzy, you are frigid like your mother. I’ll marry you if I have to, but you better get used to it. I guess I can always get myself a mistress like your father did.’ Then he stalked off again and left me crying in the forest.”

  Isabella pressed her lips together tightly and willed the tears back behind her eyes. “I didn’t leave the house again until we left for London and my season. I made up my mind: if I was like my mother, then marriage was not for me. I was in London by the time my monthlies arrived, and I sent him a letter explaining there was no need for him to marry me, and then I went about the business of rejecting every suitor that ever came my way.”

  She turned to Henry for the first time since she’d settled in the window to tell her story. Tears were streaming down her face, and Henry reached out to brush them off her cheek with his thumb. She caught his hand, held it to the side of her face, and looked at him with apology in her eyes. “You see, Henry, I love you, and that will make it even worse when you get tired of me crying every time you take your conjugal rights and go back to your mistress. It would break me to know I can’t give you what you want and need from me as your wife. So please understand, I can’t marry you.”