Satyr’s Son: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Family Saga Book 5)

by Brant, Lucinda

  “I haven’t heard you say it ever,” Jack grumbled, feeling left out of the joke.

  Teddy’s eyes shone and she let Lisa explain. “Teddy used the expression at school to signal her displeasure. It always made me giggle, for it is quite harmless, and our teachers did not know what to make of it.”

  “Papa loathes walnut pickle,” Teddy explained. “He knows. You say it to him and see if he doesn’t laugh too.”

  “I will,” Jack stated emphatically. “I’ll mention it casually during the speeches.” He grabbed Teddy’s hand because everyone was making for the French doors, and said to Lisa, “You will join us for cake, won’t you, Miss Crisp—”

  “She most certainly will not!” Teddy said with a snort, and dragged Jack away before he knew what was happening.

  Lisa watched the crowd part to allow the bridal couple to pass through the doors before them, her spirits very much lifted with this brief interlude; Teddy always had the power to make her feel better about anything and everything. And just as she decided it was time for her to join the throng, there was an almost imperceptible touch to the middle of her back. She did not need to turn around to know who it was.

  “I wish we were seated together. No matter. Come the ball, my duties will be over. I’ll find you.”

  Lisa’s smile remained fixed nor did she react but she did take a small step so that his fingers were firm against her back. A slight tilt of her chin to her right shoulder, and she said, “I have the great honor of sitting with your sister.”

  “Excellent. Elsie will look after you. And Roxton is mistaken. The Strathsays will be leaving tomorrow without you.”

  “It’s been arranged—”

  “Over my dead carcass it has! You and I—we—have other plans. Give Elsie a kiss from me…”

  TRUE TO HIS word, Henri-Antoine found Lisa in the ballroom not many minutes after the Duke’s string ensemble had struck up the music for the first dance of the evening, the minuet. The bridal couple took to the dance floor, watched on by everyone. They went through the intricate steps effortlessly, as a couple used to commanding a public space all their lives, and not, as Lisa knew, Teddy tucked away in the Cotswolds, a tomboy to the tips of her fingers. But Lisa also knew that Teddy’s step-papa was a most elegant dancer, as he had proved at the Gatehouse Lodge and now, taking to the ballroom floor with the Lady Mary, and it was he who had taught Teddy to dance the minuet as fluidly and as elegantly as if she were dancing upon a cloud.

  Lisa however had never danced in public, only at school, so when the couples took to the dance floor and Henri-Antoine came up to her she had this terror he meant to have her dance with him. It must have been writ large on her features because he smiled and winked and leaned in to say at her ear, “The terrace is deserted.”

  “I thought you were about to ask me to dance,” Lisa confessed with a laugh of relief when they were outside.

  She had her hands to the balustrade and was looking up into a late afternoon sky. When he made no reply she turned to discover he had stepped away from her. He bowed and held out his hand. She shook her head.

  “No. I cannot. I have not danced since school—”

  “No excuse. We can hear the musicians well enough, and should darkness descend, there is enough wax burning out here to illuminate St. Paul’s. Come. Take my hand.”

  “I do not doubt you dance beautifully, but I am gauche and—

  “You danced the other night with Cousin Charles and with Jack, did you not?”

  “I did. But—”

  “If you managed to dance with Jack’s two left feet, you can dance with me.”

  “That was in the obscurity of a dining room. This—this is vastly different.”

  “I did not bring you out here to save you from public embarrassment. I want you all to myself.”

  “That is what I want too.”

  When she placed her hand in his he dared to raise it to his lips.

  “Then ignore the world on the other side of those windows. Listen to the music and concentrate on me, as I will be on you.”

  She smiled tremulously. “I would like nothing better than to forget the world, and I can do that when we are alone together, and because—and because, aside from Teddy, whom I love as dearly as I would love a sister, you are all that matters to me. But you—you have family and obligation and duty, and the world watches and whispers and waits. I do not want to be the cause of any-any—unpleasantness between you and your brother, or be an embarrassment to your family.”

  He came up to her, still holding her hand, and his concern made his tone harsh. “Embarrassment? Was something said to you? Did Roxton—”

  “No. No. He was most correct. I do not doubt he knows about us, but he refrained from being impolite. But there are others here who also know—”

  “Let them!” he retorted. “My business is none of their affair.”

  She touched his cheek briefly. “It is one thing for us to share a house in Bath, away from the world, quite another for you to flaunt your mistress under the noses of your peers at a ball. Not even the Prince Regent dare do that with Mrs. Fitzherbert, and it is rumored he’s married to her.”

  “The Prince is an infantile idiot,” Henri-Antoine said, consigning the heir to the throne. He glared at her. “Is that how you think I see you? As a Mrs. Fitzherbert?”

  “You? No. But I doubt even she has been called a-a hedge whore and a-a fortune hunting mopsqueezer. I have no idea what to make of an-an athanasian wench.”

  Henri-Antoine went very still. Lisa wondered if he had heard her, such was the faraway look in his eye. And then he spoke, and his voice was like ice. “Forgive me. You should never have been subjected to such filth. I will deal with that presently. For now…” He mentally shook himself free of his rage and smiled and bowed to her again. “The music beckons. Come. Let us treat ourselves to an allemande…”

  She smiled and curtsied and gave him her hand again. With the formalities exchanged, he bowing to her, and she curtsying to him, they joined hands and were soon dancing up and down the terrace. He was exceptionally light on his feet and expert at guiding her through the intricate steps, so that while their first run through was fraught with missteps and mishandlings, at which they both smiled and laughed as they fumbled on, their second dance was much more fluid, Lisa gaining confidence with each turn and step. It was not long before they were both smiling and concentrating less on their steps and on each other as they took turns ducking under each other’s raised arms, and then dancing back-to-back, then face-to-face, and all the while with their fingers entwined. It was as intimate as a couple could get upon a dance floor without actually kissing. And they were so in harmony with each other and enjoying themselves that it was not long before the small number of persons watching them through the window had grown into a crowd.

  It was only when they stopped to regain their breath, and Henri-Antoine went off to seek out a footman with a drinks tray, that the crowd at the windows reluctantly dispersed. Lisa retreated to the far end of the balustrade to await Henri-Antoine’s return, her face flushed from dancing cooled by the breeze coming in off the lake, its surface shimmering in summer’s dusky light. Dancing with Henri-Antoine had restored her confidence and her happiness, so that when she felt a tug on the bow at her back holding her fichu in place, she naturally assumed he had returned with glasses of refreshment, and was playfully alerting her to the fact.

  When a second tug unraveled the bow, she turned around with a teasing scold, accusing him of undressing her, the fichu opening up from where it had been criss-crossed over her breasts, and now left hanging loose about her shoulders. But it was not Henri-Antoine. It was Lord Westby.

  He was so close she could smell the spirits on his breath, and he came even closer. And when she tried to tug the fichu from his fingers he closed them into a fist and whipped the thin white strip of gauze from her shoulder, leaving her now heaving breasts exposed. She tried to quell a rising panic and kept her voice firm.


  “My lord, I am cold. Please give me my fichu.”

  “Why? You don’t need it. Everyone should see your bubbies. They’re rather perfect.” He lifted his gaze from her breasts to her eyes and smiled lewdly. “In fact, everyone should see all of you—I have. And I haven’t been able to not see you since. You’re such a responsive little thing. Lucky Harry, and now lucky me—”

  “I should warn you, Lord Henri-Antoine will be here at any moment—”

  “I’m waiting for him. It’s time he returned the favor—”

  “Favor?” she asked, with what she hoped was genuine curiosity, reasoning that if she could not threaten him she needed to keep him talking and Henri-Antoine would arrive before Westby had a chance to act upon whatever demons were driving him. “What favor is that, my lord?”

  “It’s only fair he share you with me. I shared my mistress with him—”

  “But I do not wish to be shared. Therein lies the difference.”

  “It’s not up to you, is it?” he drawled with a smug smile, and set his hands on the balustrade either side of her hips, trapping her. He leaned in and attempted a kiss, but when she quickly turned her head, he settled for sniffing her neck and whispering near her ear, “If you act the whore, then you are a whore, and whores get what whores deserve.”

  Lisa grimaced and felt herself heave as his tongue tickled her ear. She tried to swat him away, and he grabbed her wrist and squeezed. Despite the pain and the fear of what he might do next, her voice was clear when she spat back bravely,

  “I am not a whore, and even if I were, I’m not your whore! And you’ve no right to force yourself on any woman, whore or no!”

  She tugged her hand free and with both hands to his chest pushed with all her strength. Off his guard and wrong-footed, Westby stumbled but made a quick recover and lunged for her. Before Lisa had taken more than a couple of steps he had her by the upper arm and pulled her into his arms, pinning hers to her side.

  “Let’s strike a bargain. I’ll forget Harry ever rutted Peggy if you go down on your knees for me, over there in those bushes. And if you don’t play the whore for me and do what I want, I’ll tell Harry you did it anyway. He’ll believe a Batoni Brother before he does—Sweet Mary Mother of God!” He yelped. “What the—what the devil!”

  Instantly he staggered back and away, a hand to his ear and swearing profusely. It was obvious he was in considerable pain. Lisa could only stare, wondering what had happened. She breathed a huge sigh of relief

  Salvation had arrived in the form of a six-foot four-inch smoking giant.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  WHEN HENRI-ANTOINE had stepped off the terrace back into the ballroom he found a footman with a drinks tray, absconded with two glasses of champagne, and was almost at the open French doors again when his brother stepped into his path. He blinked at him, wondering what was the matter. Roxton might look to be sailing on a calm sea, smiling serenely, jeweled snuff box in hand, but Henri-Antoine took one look into his eyes, eyes that were so like their mother’s, and just like her, could not hide his innermost feelings. He saw troubled waters. So he immediately thought something must be the matter with one of his nephews or nieces.

  “Julian? What is it?”

  The Duke took the glasses from his brother and offloaded them on the liveried footman at his elbow, then sent the servant away.

  “Stay inside, Harry.”

  “Wh—why? What’s happened?”

  “More than enough. Your private performance has fed the fire, when I had almost put it out. Or did you think it would go unnoticed? Half my guests were at the windows.”

  At the word performance, Henri-Antoine’s eyes went dull and his jaw tightened. He watched his brother shift his gaze out across the ballroom and smile benignly as he spoke. It was only when he finally looked at him again that Henri-Antoine deigned to reply.

  “Keep your concerns to yourself, and stop interfering unnecessarily in my affairs.”

  “Interfere unnecessarily?” Henri-Antoine had the Duke’s full attention. “Everything is my concern, Harry, most particularly my family—you, what goes on here at—”

  “I’ll be gone tomorrow, and she is coming with me. Concern yourself with that!”

  Henri-Antoine went to step around his brother, but the Duke walked into his path again and they bumped chests. Henri-Antoine stepped back, but he did not step away.

  “Out. Of. My. Way.”

  The Duke moved closer, doing his best to ensure their conversation was not overheard. He lowered his voice to a hissed whisper.

  “You risk making an even greater fool of yoursel—”

  “More fool you for not trusting in my judgment.”

  The Duke huffed his disbelief. “Judgment?” He looked his brother over. “But it’s not your brain that’s doing the thinking, is it?”

  Henri-Antoine’s lip curled. “Envious I got to taste the menu and choose my favorite dish and you didn’t?”

  “How dare—Mon Dieu, how dare you speak to me—”

  “This isn’t about you. It is about choice.”

  “Choice?”

  “Mine. To live as I please with whom I please.”

  “That’s not choice. That’s being selfish.”

  “Yes. I am. I can be.” Henri-Antoine regarded his brother with some sympathy. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to choose whom you were to marry, or how you wanted to live your life.”

  “Have I ever shirked my responsibilities? Have I ever disappointed Deb, our parents, my children, you? Have I not done the best that I can with the estate for Frederick, for posterity?”

  “You have, Julian. You are an exemplary duke, a wonderful husband and papa, a good master, and a wise and circumspect politician. Everything you do is commendable. No one has ever said otherwise; I certainly sing your praises.”

  “Thank you. Which is why, as your brother, I concern myself in your aff—”

  “Still, if it all went to the bottom of the sea tomorrow—your marriage, the estate, the respect and esteem in which the family, the children, everyone holds you—as an eldest son you could blame it all on mon père. Seb Westby blames his father for everthing. He can. He’s the eldest son. I cannot. My choices are mine to make. So are my mistakes.”

  The Duke took another sweeping look about at his guests, saw his duchess regarding him from across the room, smiled and rolled his eyes at her, then looked back at his brother. He smiled.

  “No one is prouder of you than I, Harry. The inheritance mon père left you, you could’ve squandered the lot. But you haven’t. You’re putting it to good use. What the Fournier Foundation has already achieved in a few short years could change medical science forever—”

  “Yes. It will. You have never meddled in that aspect of my life, so refrain from interfering in my private life.”

  The Duke opened his mouth to speak, then felt a presence at his elbow and looked about to find his mother had swept up to them with a bright smile, fluttering a painted gouache fan at her décolletage.

  “Julian, I require your immediate attention to a matter that has been troubling me for quite some time,” she announced in French. “And it cannot wait. So please, to come with me.” She put her arm through his and did the same with Henri-Antoine. “You too, mon chou. This problem that has arisen requires both my sons.”

  And without a word of protest, she swept her sons off to an anteroom a few feet behind them which had been set aside for guests who wished to rest somewhere away from the noise. Unsurprisingly it was deserted. Antonia had seen to that, and two footmen stood guard at the doorway to make certain no one entered. With the door closed on the noise of orchestra competing with dancers and conversations, the Duke looked to his mother, nonplussed.

  “Maman, you certainly know how to pick your moment. What is this problem—”

  “You. You are the problem, Julian.”

  Roxton’s face turned brick red. He had the expression of a guilty four-year-old caught with his fingers
in the strawberry jam.

  “Why am I the problem, when it is Harry who—”

  “Do not blame your brother.”

  “But, Maman!” The Duke wiped a hand over his face, exasperated

  Henri-Antoine gave a start. Had His Grace actually whined like a four-year-old? And then he looked at his mother, this tiny woman in heels who glared up in warning at her big, pouting forty-year-old son, that she was not to be trifled with, and his anger evaporated at the absurdity of this scene. The laughter bubbled up within him until his shoulders shook. Now his mother and brother were staring at him.

  “It’s not—it’s not—all Julian’s fault, Maman,” he finally managed to say.

  “Thank you, Harry,” the Duke conceded, much mollified, by the concession and his brother’s good humor.

  “Most of it, but not all.”

  “Harry, if you had not—”

  “Enough! Both of you!” Antonia demanded. She looked from one to the other, pointing her fan. “Why is it that these conversations they arise at the most inopportune times? Could this not have waited until tomorrow?”

  “It seems not. Harry is leaving in the morning.”

  Antonia put up her brows in surprise and waited for her younger son to explain.

  “To Bath.”

  “To Martin’s house?”

  “Yes. Though we should stop calling it that, now it has reverted to me.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “And more importantly, because Martin is here now, with mon père, where he belongs.”

  “He’s taking that girl with him,” the Duke stated sullenly.

  “Lisa is not that girl, just as Martin was never that servant,” Henri-Antoine corrected.

  “You can’t compare the two!”

  “I can and will,” Henri-Antoine stated. “Martin may have been mon père’s valet, but he was much more than just a servant, wasn’t he? He was our parents’ life-long friend. He was your godfather and confidant. He was a friend of this family. And most of all he was an estimable and honorable gentleman. An aristocrat in thought, word, and deed, if not in blood. And we all loved him.”