Velvet Chains (Historical Romance) (4 page)

3

England—February 1779

Lady Season Chatsworth stared at her image in the mirror. She knew she was pretty, but she had never found much satisfaction in that fact. So far, her beauty had proven to be only a curse. Of late, her hand had been sought by many titled gentlemen, yet Season still couldn't believe her father had betrothed her to the odious Earl of Ransford.

At the tender age of nineteen, Season felt as though her life was over. She shuddered in disgust, remembering the touch of the earl's sweaty palms sliding down her arms and over her breasts. Lord Arthur Ransford was always correct and respectful when her father was present, but whenever her father left the room, Ransford would touch her in the most disgusting and intimate ways. Season remembered the feel of his wet mouth on hers and closed her eyes, trying to block the dreadful experience from her mind. She remembered the time she had escaped from him by running into the garden, only to have him follow her. He had been delighted to have her alone, and he had pulled her into his arms and kissed her. In trying to free herself, Season had bitten the earl on the lip. She had felt no guilt for having done so. Indeed, she had felt great satisfaction from drawing blood that day. Afterward, Lord Ransford had angrily declared that she wouldn't act so high and mighty once she became his wife.

Season frowned at her image in the mirror. Her skin was creamy white and she had been blessed with high cheekbones. When she smiled, dimples appeared on either side of her cheeks. Her hair was a vibrant golden color, and when the sun struck the shiny mass, her curls came alive with red highlights. Her father had once laughingly told her that there was distant Viking blood running through her veins, thus explaining the color of her hair. Season was tall for a girl and, she thought, much too thin, but her body was appealingly curved, though very firm from the many hours she spent on horseback.

Although Season found her eyes were too large for her face, she was pleased with their deep green color. Unlike many women with light-colored hair, Season's lashes weren't pale in color, but long and dark. They were complemented by her delicately arched brows. Her mouth was full and generous, but at the moment it trembled as she pondered her future.

Lord Arthur Ransford was a widower who, it was rumored, had long been searching for a young wife to bear him the children his barren wife had been unable to give him. Season shuddered, remembering the earl's assurances that he could father children. He had mentioned several bastards scattered about his estates as proof of his virility.

On many occasions Season had begged her father not to give her hand in marriage to the odious earl who, in truth, was more than ten years older than her father. On those occasions her father had raged at her, accusing her of being an ungrateful chit and declaring she should feel honored because the earl had asked for her hand. No amount of pleading on Season's part could sway her father. He was determined that his daughter would be Countess of Ransford.

As the date for the wedding drew near, Season became almost desperate to save herself from the lecherous old man. The young girl thought that if her mother were still alive she might have taken her side in the matter, but Season's mother had been dead for twelve years. The girl had been left motherless at an early age.

Season's father was very rarely at Chatsworth Castle. He placed great importance on his seat in The House of Lords and spent the majority of his time in London. He took very little interest in his daughter or his country estates. Season had learned long ago that she was little more than an afterthought where her father was concerned.

The coach accident that had taken her mother's life twelve years ago had also killed Season's only brother, and since that time her father had changed from a gentle, caring man to a cold one who hardly ever smiled. He didn't seem to concern himself overmuch with the welfare of his only child. Season hadn't been to London since she was ten years old. For that matter, she'd rarely gone farther than the village at the foot of Chatsworth Castle. It appeared that her father had all but forgotten her existence.

Season was often lonely because she had no companions of her own age. Most of the time she could be found riding her favorite black gelding, Cinibar. She spent many hours racing across the vast Chatsworth estate, her golden hair flying in the wind, Cinibar her only companion.

Yet for all her father's disinterest in her, he hadn't neglected her education. When she had been younger he had employed a strict governess who had taught Season all the finer graces that befitted a lady of her high station, and as she had grown older, her father had engaged a tutor, a dance instructor, and a music teacher. Season now realized that her father had been grooming her for an advantageous marriage.

Unlike most young girls her age, Season loved to read, and she spent hours pouring over the tomes in her father's vast library. Her favorite reading was poetry and romance. The Lady Season Chatsworth was a hopeless romantic. She often dreamed of a handsome young man who would carry her away with him. Yet Season knew her dreams would never be. No young gentleman had come to sweep her into his arms and declare his undying love for her, and Lord Ransford fell far short of the dashing young hero she had created in her mind. She was young and alive and couldn't stand the thought of being shut away from the world in Lord Ransford's dark castle.

While she was growing up, Season hadn't been entirely unhappy. She had been surrounded by servants who looked after her every comfort. Indeed, she would be perfectly content to live out her days at Chatsworth Castle ... if only she could meet the man who would sweep her off her feet and fulfill her girlhood dreams.

Two weeks ago, Season's father had sent a dressmaker from London to make her wedding trousseau, and if it weren't for the fact that she was being forced into a marriage she didn't want, she would have been elated by all the new gowns. In the past, a seamstress from the village had made all her clothing. Now her father had sent a Frenchwoman from one of the finest establishments in London to see that she was properly gowned. Season was being outfitted with evening gowns, morning gowns, riding habits, nightgowns, and robes. She had shoes to match each outfit, along with bonnets, gloves, capes, and shawls—everything a new bride would need to take to her new home... everything, except a man she chose to marry, and perhaps a kind word from her father.

Season looked again at her reflection in the mirror. She was dressed in a simple, light blue gown with white puffed sleeves. The bodice was tightly laced across her breasts and the waist was fitted to call attention to her eighteen-inch circumference. For all her new finery, Season sometimes preferred to dress simply, especially when she was grooming her horse, Cinibar. What did it matter how she dressed, she thought, biting her lower lip. There was no one to notice how she was gowned.

"’Tis said, oh shame to be sacrificed for fame!" she said aloud, quoting one of her favorite poems. There was no doubt in Season's mind that she was being sacrificed by her father to the Earl of Ransford. The reason for it she could only guess. Perhaps her father wanted to be rid of the responsibility for her upkeep. In the past she had pleaded with him to take her to London so she could be presented at court, but he had refused her so often that finally she had given up asking altogether.

It was a lonely, solitary life at Chatsworth. The young girl was never invited to attend any of the village functions, since it would be unseemly for the Lady Season Chatsworth to socialize with the locals. She sighed heavily, and reflected that she didn't seem to belong anywhere. She had grown up without benefit of family or friends.

Pushing an unruly lock of golden hair away from her face, Season bit her lip. She had only a short time of freedom left. In three weeks she would become the wife of Lord Ransford. If only there were some way she could save herself from this marriage, she thought unhappily.

Shaking her head, Season picked up her straw bonnet, tied it under her chin, and walked out the door of her bedroom. If nothing else, she would enjoy her last three weeks of freedom to the fullest.

As she made her way to the stables, Season decided she would groom and curry Cinibar. Perhaps after luncheon, she would ride to Chatsworth Village. The people of the village always seemed genuinely happy to see her. They were always warm and friendly to their lord's daughter.

Season patted Cinibar's black coat, which gleamed from the brushing she had just given him, and gazed out the stable door, allowing her eyes to move over Chatsworth Castle. The aged white brick structure was the only home she had ever known. She felt an ache deep inside, knowing she would soon be leaving it behind. The huge castle was made up of two different architectural styles: the oldest part had been constructed during William the Conquer's time, and boasted nine Norman towers; the latter wing, added in time of Henry VIII, represented the Tudor era. At one time there had been a moat surrounding the castle, but it had been filled in with earth during Season's greatgrandfather's life; he had complained of the stench that came from the foul, stagnant water. However, a huge lake was located behind the castle, and in warmer weather a large number of white swans drifted lazily over the water.

Looking up at the sky, Season noticed it was a bleak, overcast day. It looked as if snow might fall before the afternoon ended.

"My lady," Tom, the stable boy, said, coming up beside her, "there be a coach drawing up in front of the main house. I think it's the Lord Ransford."

At first Season thought Tom must be mistaken. Not even Lord Ransford would dare visit her while her father was away in London and she was unchaperoned. Peeping around the stable door, she saw it was, indeed, he. She felt fear, knowing there was no one to protect her from the earl. Lately he had become very bold in his advances toward her. How would he behave with her father away?

"He is not alone," she said, observing the two other gentlemen who stepped from the coach.

Season frowned, remembering the last time Lord Ransford had visited Chatsworth. On that occasion he had told her he couldn't wait to show off his young, innocent bride-to-be to his friends.

Her eyes flashed with anger. How dare he come to her home when he knew very well that she would be alone and unchaperoned! Yet this act was so typical of him, she wondered why she was so shocked by his behavior. Did he think he could parade her before his friends as a fine catch? Season knew her father well enough to realize even he wouldn't be over pleased by Ransford's untimely visit. She hoped he would be furious at the man's audacity.

Suddenly a devilish plan began to form in Season's mind. Knowing what a prideful man Ransford was, she knew he would want her to make the best impression on his friends. Unmindful of the far-reaching consequences of thwarting the earl, she decided this would be the perfect occasion to rid herself of the hateful man.

"Tom, tell Simms to inform Lord Ransford and his friends that I am in the stable. Tell him not to inform Ransford that I know he is here. When you have delivered the message return to me, posthaste." Season smiled to herself, awed by her own daring.

She watched Tom rush away to do her bidding, feeling a prickle of guilt. She intended to use the poor unsuspecting stable boy in her plan to be rid of Ransford. Tom's father was the innkeeper in the village, and for the last six months Tom had been helping out at the Chatsworth stables. Season wasn't sure of his age. Though he was tall and muscular, she judged him to be no more than sixteen.

When Tom returned and told her he had delivered her message to Simms, the butler, Season almost changed her mind. Tom's blue eyes were sparkling so innocently she couldn't seem to bring herself to use him so shamelessly, and she was in the process of leaving the stables, when Lord Ransford's voice reached her ears.

"Wait until you see my lady love. She is scarcely out of the schoolroom. She has lived in the country all her life and hasn't acquired the wicked ways so many London maidens have," Ransford bragged to his contemporaries.

"I have heard it said that she is a real beauty and will bring with her a large dowry. You are indeed a fortunate man if the stories one hears about the Lady Season are true," one of the men speculated.

"You are damned lucky, Ransford. Would that I were the one to take such a young innocent to the marriage bed." The lewd remark came from the third man.

Season felt her face burn with indignation and embarrassment at hearing herself discussed in such a crude way. In that moment, the young girl knew she would have to go through with her plan. She could never marry a man who allowed his friends to make sport of her innocence. Glancing at Tom, she read the pity in his bright eyes, and setting her jaw stubbornly, Season mentally prepared herself to act a part.

"Oh, she's innocent all right, I would never give my proud name to some flighty, promiscuous miss," Ransford declared.

As the stable door was pushed open, Season sprung into action. She propelled herself against a startled Tom, knocking him off balance, and sending them both tumbling into a pile of fresh hay.

"Forgive me, Tom," she whispered. "I am desperate-- please help me!"

Poor Tom was just getting over the shock of the lady of the manor landing atop him when her sweet lips covered his. Raising her head, Season's green eyes held a beseeching glint in their misty depths.