Henry's Bride (London Libertines Book 1)

by Emily Royal

  His lip twitched at her response, but he left the room without a word.

  *

  Madame Dupont’s establishment was situated on Bond Street. Ribbons decorated the window in a minimalist fashion, as if the proprietress wanted to discourage patronage.

  The shop was empty save for two women at the back who looked up as Jeanette stepped inside. They stood beside a cabinet piled with rolls of material. One was dressed in bright, fashionable colors. The second, taller and older and dressed in a more somber black, broke away from her companion and approached Jeanette.

  “Lady Ravenwell!”

  “Madame Dupont?”

  “Oui, c’est vrais, your ladyship. I was delighted when Lord Henry asked me to receive you. He’s a valued patron, but I didn’t expect him to send his wife here.” She shifted her gaze to the other woman in the shop. “No matter. I’ll make you the finest gowns in London. I’ve recently taken a delivery of the most delightful silks. The merchant gives me first refusal.”

  The other woman stepped closer, moving into the ray of sunlight from the window. Jeanette’s breath caught in her throat. She had never seen anyone so exquisitely beautiful. Clear blue eyes, slanted in an exotic fashion, gave her an air of mystery. Her skin glowed with health and vitality. Rich amber-colored hair completed her beauty, and a soft cascade of curls framed her face which bore an expression of overt astonishment.

  “You’re Lady Ravenwell?”

  Was there nowhere Jeanette could go without being insulted? Jeanette set her mouth into a hard smile and addressed the stranger.

  “Perhaps you’d rather address me as the Holmestead Harlot, like the other ladies.”

  The woman laughed. “Society ladies always direct their venom to anyone they deem a threat.” She dropped a curtsey. “Forgive me, you must think me dreadfully rude. My name is Charlotte Winters and I’m delighted to meet you. My husband has been generous enough to indulge me with yet another set of Madame Dupont’s delectable gowns.”

  “It’s the least I can do, Madame,” the modiste said, “given the beautiful silks he supplies me with.”

  Charlotte linked her arm with Jeanette’s. “Madame Dupont is right. The silks are exquisite. I’m sure there’ll be something to emphasize the color of your eyes. Such an interesting shade of green!”

  “I must protest!” the modiste cried. “I’m sure Lady Ravenwell has no wish to indulge in such a level of familiarity with a woman of your background.”

  “Her background?”

  Charlotte sighed. “I’m surprised Henry hasn’t told you. Before I married Daniel, I was a courtesan.”

  “Which is why you must leave,” Madame Dupont said.

  “No, let her stay,” Jeanette said. Charlotte’s easy smile outshone the harsh, polite masks most ladies wore, and Jeanette sorely needed to see a friendly face.

  “Good. Then let me show you the silks. There’s a red which would suit you perfectly.”

  “Wouldn’t green be more befitting?” Jeanette asked.

  “Nonsense! Henry won’t want you hidden away in dreary colors. The red will contrast with your eyes. Better still, if we find you some green trimming, the effect will be stunning. You’ll be the talk of London.”

  As if she wanted them to gossip about her!

  Charlotte’s smile faded. “Forgive me, I always rattle on when I’m nervous. I’ve been anxious to meet the woman who finally snared Henry. The man no courtesan could keep longer than a few months. You’re nothing like I expected.”

  Jeanette withdrew her arm. This was intolerable! Had Henry sent his mistress to humiliate her?

  “No, no!” Charlotte cried, “I meant it as a good thing! I assumed he’d fall victim to someone like Elizabeth De Witt or that horse-faced Felicia Long, some insipid creature with all the character bred out of her. It warms my heart to see he’s not thrown himself away.”

  “Were you his mistress?”

  Charlotte had the grace to blush. “He was my protector when I was younger. But I’m happily married now. My beloved Daniel is one of the few men in society capable of ignoring my past and loving me for who I am. I count myself extremely fortunate.”

  But the look of unfulfillment in her eyes was not that of a happy woman.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “you must think me terribly insensitive. Madame is right. I should leave. Daniel may be a knight, but his title can never remove the stain of my past.”

  Jeanette took Charlotte’s hand. “Please stay. Why should I blame you for the circumstances you once found yourself in, circumstances I was myself placed in? The men of this world have much to be responsible for.”

  Charlotte cast Jeanette a sharp look, her eyes radiating intelligence. Her eyes hardened momentarily before she smiled. She squeezed Jeanette’s hand, and Jeanette flinched at the spike of pain.

  “Oh, forgive me! I’d forgotten,” Charlotte said. “News travels fast, you know. I hear Viscount De Blanchard treads more carefully now his nose has been bloodied. You’re to be commended for showing him the error of his ways. He offered to set me up not long after I entered into the life of a courtesan. But I refused. I’d rather starve.”

  “Was starvation an option for you?”

  Charlotte’s smile slipped. “My energies always had to be focused on keeping my patrons interested in my body. And, of course, I was shunned by decent society.”

  “That depends on your definition of decent society.”

  “You’re too kind. Of them all, save Daniel of course, Henry was the only one who would acknowledge me publicly. In the eyes of the others, especially the ladies, I didn’t, and often still don’t, exist.”

  “From what I’ve seen, their attention is nothing to crave. But I’m glad my husband was kind to you.”

  “He’s a good man, Lady Ravenwell, and I’m convinced he’ll be a faithful husband now he’s settled. I know you’ll make him happy, and he you, of course.”

  How was it that Lady Winters, a woman with her understanding of human behavior, could be so wrong? Henry despised her! If this vivacious beauty could not have secured his interest for longer than a few weeks, what hope did Jeanette have?

  She swallowed her desire to set her companion straight. “I hope we can be friends, Lady Winters.”

  “Then you must let me show you the red silk. And please, call me Charlotte.”

  *

  As the morning drew to a close, Jeanette completed her order—three evening gowns and two day dresses. At Charlotte’s insistence, one of the evening gowns was to be made in the bright red silk with green trimmings. A second would be fashioned in a rich imperial green, the third a more muted shade of blue.

  “I don’t know if I’d dare wear the red.”

  “Nonsense, your ladyship,” Madame Dupont said. “That will be the best of the three. I’ll venture to say it will be my finest creation, and I’ve been in business many years, had many customers.”

  Charlotte let out a laugh. “Many ladies accompanied by their patrons, or should I say, their uncles? Almost every unmarried lady who arrives on the arm of a man is his niece.”

  Madame Dupont looked up from writing Jeanette’s measurements on her ledger. “One of my customers has more than twenty uncles.”

  “My, my,” Jeanette said. “Her grandparents must have been busy.”

  Charlotte snorted. “As is she!”

  Bidding the modiste farewell, the two women stepped out into the street together and embraced. Charlotte squeezed Jeanette’s arm and she flinched at the sharp spike of pain.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Jeanette pulled her arm free. “Nothing.”

  “No, I insist.”

  Undeterred, Charlotte pushed up Jeanette’s sleeve to reveal the bandage covering the bullet wound. Brown and red patches adorned the clumsily wound strips of linen. Defeated, Jeanette stood still while her new friend unwound the bandage.

  “My God!”

  Though the bullet had been removed weeks ago, the flesh still
glistened an angry red.

  “What caused this?”

  “I was shot.”

  “Shot? Has Henry seen this?”

  “He mustn’t.” Jeanette said. “It was a duel at Holmestead Hall. I’ve no wish to remind my husband of the events which led to my ruination. It’ll heal eventually.”

  “Even I can tell that wound’s festered,” Charlotte said. “You need to be seen, and soon, unless you wish to lose your arm. Henry would understand.”

  The memory of his cold eyes froze Jeanette’s blood. He would not forgive a reminder of the scandal which had thrown her into his path.

  Charlotte took her hand. “I have a solution if you have no wish to trouble your husband. I know a very discreet surgeon. I can send him to you.”

  “Was he one of your protectors?”

  “No, he’s a respectable family man. But he dealt with all my little accidents.”

  Little accidents, good lord! Is that how courtesans viewed the unborn children they were forced to dispose of to enable them to continue their livelihoods?

  Though Charlotte smiled, the little creases in her eyes betrayed her. In their blue depths lay dark tones of grief. She might never admit it, but her expression bore the loss of each unborn child.

  Had Henry fathered one of them?

  “No,” Charlotte said, her perceptive eyes understanding where Jeanette’s thoughts had taken her. “Henry was always careful.”

  “Do you have any children?” Jeanette asked.

  A sad expression clouded Charlotte’s eyes. “It was not to be. But I must make the most of the life I have. I’m fortunate to have Daniel’s love. Husbands in society are not known for loving their wives.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, forgive me!”

  “What for?” Jeanette said. “You speak the truth.”

  “Please permit me to send Doctor Hill to you.”

  “Very well. Send him tonight. My husband has dined out every night this week. I’m sure tonight will be no different.”

  *

  Henry gestured to his front door. “Coming in for a brandy, Oakville?”

  “I don’t know…”

  “My wife will have retired.”

  “You’ll have to speak to her at some point, Dray. A woman as stunning as your wife will attract predators if it’s widely known you abandon her every evening.”

  “As soon as I know she’s carrying my child, I’ll send her to Sussex. The young bucks hereabouts won’t bother her in the country when there’s sweeter meat to sniff around in London.”

  Oakville’s tone hardened. “Such as Rosaline?”

  “Rosaline?”

  “Betty’s new girl,” Oakville said. “You were seen with her at Betty’s last masquerade party. I heard tell you spirited yourself away for a whole night with her and weren’t seen leaving Betty’s till after sunrise.” He folded his arms. “I’m not adverse to a little variety after marriage, but it’s poor form to return to your wife after daybreak.”

  “Your new-found conscience is becoming a bore,” Henry said. “Nothing happened.”

  Oakville snorted. “The champion rake holes himself up with the prettiest doxy in town for an entire night and nothing happened? Have you lost your mind, or perhaps your cock has fallen off?”

  “I merely removed her from the scarlet room. De Blanchard had been sniffing round her. For a mere ten guineas, I purchased her safety for the night.”

  “And nothing else?”

  Heat warmed Henry’s cheeks at the memory of the grateful girl’s administrations, the shame in her eyes when he’d rejected her.

  “Dray?” Oakville nudged him. “Are you all right?”

  He nodded, and they approached the front door.

  A shrill cry rang out.

  Oakville chuckled. “That’s the sound of a woman being pleasured.”

  Henry’s stomach tightened. The cry had come from inside the house. He looked up at his wife’s window. Two shapes moved, silhouetted against the light. A man and a woman. They drew close, merging into a single shape, then parted. Moments later, a man emerged from the side of the house and disappeared down the street.

  “I’ll have that drink another night,” Rupert said. “I have no wish to witness the cuckolded husband confronting his wife’s infidelity.” He lifted his lapels and thrust his hands into his pockets and set off in the stranger’s wake.

  Once inside the house, Henry went straight to his study and poured a brandy. His fingers itched to curl around his wife’s throat. How could she! Thoughts of her had invaded his dreams, driving out the images of the other women he’d enjoyed over the years. Each morning he woke with a cockstand which ached to be inside her. She even penetrated his waking thoughts. Rosaline’s offer to pleasure herself for him had awakened a primal appetite; the need to see his wife, his Jeanette, bringing herself to pleasure at her own hands, readying her body for him until he buried himself inside her, claiming the moment of completion for himself.

  Yet she had turned her attentions elsewhere.

  He tightened his grip on the glass, then hurled it at the door. It burst into splinters on impact, pinpricks of light shattering in the air before dissolving onto the floor.

  “Damn her!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Charlotte!”

  Jeanette’s heart leapt with joy at the sight of her new friend in Hyde Park.

  “Lady Ravenwell, should you greet me so openly? Aren’t you concerned what people might say?”

  “Let them say what they will. And please, call me Jeanette.”

  “What about Henry?”

  An invisible fist clenched her heart at the mention of his name, and Charlotte’s familiar use of it.

  “We barely speak,” she sighed. “He’s gone by the time I take my breakfast and at night…”

  Heat rose in her face, her body burning with need and loss.

  “Has Doctor Hill visited you yet?”

  “Yes.” Jeanette nodded. “He warned me of the dangers of leaving the wound untreated but assured me it should heal cleanly now. I cannot thank you enough.

  “I’m so glad,” Charlotte said. “Will you be wearing your red dress to the opera tonight? Madame Dupont showed it to me before she packed it to send to you.”

  “It’s a little daring. Perhaps the green…”

  “Nonsense! If Henry doesn’t already love you, he will once he sees you in that red silk.”

  Charlotte was right. Henry couldn’t maintain the wall of hostility forever. The loving tender man who caressed her to pleasure at night would emerge once more. Perhaps he only needed a little encouragement.

  When hope returned to her, hope that he might grow fond of her, then she’d dare to wear the red dress.

  *

  Jenkins addressed her as soon as she returned home.

  “His lordship awaits you in the library.”

  Mirroring the interview on the day of her marriage, Jeanette found herself standing before her husband while he sat at his desk. He gestured to the chair in front of him.

  As soon as she sat, he held up a letter between thumb and forefinger, distaste on his lips as if the paper burned his skin.

  “Doctor Hill is a most anxious correspondent,” he said. “You should tell him it’s not seemly for husbands to pay him for his services. I rather think he should be paying you.”

  “I–I’m sorry…”

  He raised a hand, cutting off her apology. “Isn’t it a little late for that?”

  “I’d asked Doctor Hill to send the account directly to me. Let me settle it myself. I have money of my own.”

  “Money which I provide.” His expression hardened. “Whichever method is used to settle the account, I’m the one who ultimately pays, am I not?”

  He crumpled the piece of paper in his hand, then tossed it behind him.

  “I’ve already settled the account. Now go.”

  He bent his head down, dipped his pen into the inkpot in front of him, and began to write, seemingly
ignoring her.

  Her legs wobbled as she stood. Before she reached the door, he called out.

  “You’re not to receive visitors without my permission. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes,” she said quietly.

  “…and I trust you appreciate why I must leave you alone until the fruits of your disgrace are revealed or not.” He set his pen down and turned his gaze on her, his eyes glacial. “Do you understand?”

  Her heart screamed at her to admit she didn’t, but his narrowed eyes and dark anger forced her to nod.

  “Good. Now get dressed. We leave for Covent Garden in an hour.”

  Jeanette wouldn’t be wearing the red dress tonight.

  *

  By the middle of the third act, the music had driven away Jeanette’s melancholy. Her heart lifted as the principal sopranos sang her favorite passage, a duet where the voices soared into the sky like songbirds circling in the warm summer air, higher and higher until they touched the heavens.

  Such pure voices! Music had always been a kingdom she could dwell in, away from harsh realities of the world.

  She leaned over the edge of the private box Henry had secured to get a better view.

  A warm hand touched hers.

  “What are they singing?” he whispered in her ear, the soft timbre she thought she’d imagined when he’d carried her from the field, his embrace strong and protecting.

  “Che soave zeffiretto” she breathed. “What a gentle little zephyr.”

  “What’s the song about?”

  “Infidelity. The countess and her servant are seeking to entrap the count, to expose his infidelity.”

  The hand withdrew, shattering the fragile bond between them.

  “Herr Mozart understands the wiles of women almost as well as I.”

  At the end of the act, he leapt to his feet even before the host announced the interval.

  “Stay here,” he commanded. “I’ll fetch you a drink. Don’t speak to anyone.”

  He disappeared as if he couldn’t remove himself from her presence quickly enough.

  Moments later, the door opened and a thin, blond man in his forties slipped into the seat beside her, concern on his face.

  “Lady Ravenwell, I told you to rest.”