Autumn Rain (5 page)

"I—I should like something to drink, I think," Elinor managed to say.

"I could bring ye a pot o' tea—or a bit of ratafia," the girl offered. "Name's Mary, by the by."

"Actually, I should prefer something a bit stronger. Mary," she mused half to herself, "it's my mother's name also."

The girl laid aside the nightgown and surveyed Elinor sympathetically. "Never liked the name myself, ye know—always thought it plain. But aye, I'd wager ye'd take the stronger stuff. If ye was to want me to, I suppose I could get something outer his lordship's cabinet—if that hateful Daggett ain't in his room, you understand."

"Daggett?"

"His valet. Would ye have a finger or two of brandy— or a bit of port?"

"Brandy would be fine."

"Ever drink any?"

"No."

"Well, ye'd best drink it slow-like, else ye'll choke yerself on it."

"Thank you, Mary."

"Ye don't have to thank me. If it was me, I'd be a-drinking it also."

The maid brought the decanter and a glass. Dismissing her, Elinor undressed quickly, donned the nightgown and wrapper, poured herself a full glass of the liqueur, and carried it to a chair before the fire. Outside, the wind came up, and a burst of rain sprayed the windowpane beside her. The thought crossed her mind that it might sleet as she sank down and began to drink of the potent, fiery liquid. The maid had been right—as the first of it burned her throat, Elinor choked, and tears welled in her eyes. When she finished coughing, she resolved to sip it slowly, to let it warm her mouth before she swallowed. She sat there drinking, listening to the storm, watching the licking flames, trying not to think of Lord Kingsley.

She was on her third glass when he came up. As the door opened and closed behind her, she dropped it, spilling the liquid onto the hearth. A splash ignited, flashing outward, and the old man hastened to beat out the trail of fire on the marble before it reached the expensive rug. "What the devil are you doing?"

"I—I was having some brandy." She took a deep breath, then blurted out, "It was to help me sleep."

"I cannot abide a sotted female, Elinor," he told her coldly. "In the future, you will not partake of wine when you are not in my presence." Abruptly, his manner changed. To her horror, he moved closer and lifted her hair from her shoulder. "Lovely. It's like copper-colored silk. Fashion or no, I'd not see you cut it." He let the hair fall, and his hand slid to her shoulder, tracing the bony line to her neck, then upward to her jaw. "Has anyone told you what an exquisite creature you are?" he asked, his voice raspy.

"No—no." Disconcerted, she pulled away and tightened the sash on her wrapper.

The gesture was not lost on him. "You must not be missish before me, Elinor. Take it off."

"Uh—"

"The wrapper, Elinor. Take it off," he repeated.

"No."

"I'd see what I have paid for."

"I—I cannot."

"If I have to ask again, I'll take my cane to you."

She wanted to scream for aid, but knew none would be forthcoming. For a long moment, she met his glittering gaze, then she took a deep breath. With shaking hands, she untied the sash and let it fall at her feet. Turning away, she removed the silk wrapper, folded it, and lay it over the back of a chair. When she turned around, she realized that he had taken off his coat and cravat and was unbuttoning his vest.

"Curst buttons," he muttered. "I need your help."

"Your valet—Mr. Daggett—"

"I'd have you do it."

Her whole body trembling now, she held out her hands. "I—I cannot!"

He stared at her hard for a moment, then seemed to relent. "That fool did not tell you anything, did she?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your mama."

Heat flooded her face. "No," she lied.

"Take off the gown and get into bed."

"Please—could I not leave it on—just tonight, I mean? I—uh—"

"Get into bed."

"My lord—"

"My name is Arthur," he cut in abruptly. "You will use that when we are alone and Kingsley when we are in company. The title came dear to me, and I'd have none forget it." He finished with the vest and removed it. "I'd hear you say it."

"Kingsley?"

"Arthur." His thin, bony fingers worked at his shirt. When she said nothing, he again moved toward her. "Well?"

"I am getting into bed—Arthur," she mumbled, scrambling for the covers.

"Good."

She pulled the bedcoverings up to her chin and did not look at him as he finished undressing. But as each garment came off, her heart seemed to rise higher in her throat. By the time he blew out the candles, she was nearly rigid with terror. She could hear the rustle of the bedhangings, then feel the slight dip in the mattress as he crawled in beside her. For a long moment, there was no sound beyond the reverberation of her heartbeat in her ears and the high, reedy pitch of his breathing. She lay very still until she felt his fingers gather the cloth of her nightgown, pulling it upward, then she flinched.

"Oh, please—no. Not yet."

"Lie still."

She froze when his hand slid up her thigh to touch her, and then a cry of revulsion rose in her throat as his finger poked her
there.
She stiffened, then clutched at his arm.

"No!"

To her utter horror, his finger pushed inside her, hurting her, finding a place she did not even know she had. She tried to push him away, and would have screamed, but he rolled over onto her, pinning her beneath him, separating her legs with a bony knee. His breath wheezed in her face before his mouth came down hard on hers, stifling any sound beyond a frantic "No-mmmmph." She gagged and fought wildly, feeling his hands groping between her thighs, feeling the wet, limp softness of his flesh against hers. Before she could buck free of him, he suddenly rolled off, cursing. She felt an overwhelming relief.

"Is it—is it
over?"
she dared to ask.

He hit her then. "Hold your tongue—do you hear me? Hold your tongue!" He staggered from the bed to retrieve his cane and came back brandishing it over her. "Little witch!"

"Wha—what did I do?" The cane came down hard on her shoulders, and she raised her hands to cover her face as he hit her again and again. "I am innocent!" she cried, not knowing even what she protested. "Please— no! Arthur—my lord—," she babbled, "Arthur—no!"

He stopped suddenly, but she would never forget the awful expression of loathing on his face. Rolling into a ball on the bed, she began to sob loudly. She heard the cane hit the floor somewhere across the room, and then she felt his hands on her shoulders.

"Are you hurt?"

Thinking it some sort of a trick, or some form of punishment like that meted out at school, where if one admitted one was not, one got hit again, she was afraid to say anything. Instead, she clutched her knees to her breast and rocked. He rose, pulled on his nightshirt, and padded to the washstand, where he poured water into the basin. Carrying it back, he sat beside her and pulled her head onto his knees. Her teeth chattered, making speech impossible. Leaning across her, he managed to spark a candle wick, and then he began to wash her face.

"You are my wife, Elinor," he said finally. "You will obey me in all things. Do you understand that?"

She gulped for air and tried to control the tremors that shook her body. "You hurt me!" she cried.

"I'd not have you speak of this—not now—not ever," he went on as though she'd not spoken. "Do you understand me? Not to anyone—
not ever,"
he repeated.

She didn't understand at all, but she managed to nod her head. " Yes, b-but—"

A bony finger stilled her mouth as though she were a small child. "No. There will be no buts between us." His hands smoothed her hair much as her old nurse had done when she had been sick. "There—you are better, aren't you?"

She choked back tears and turned her face away from him. He laid the basin on the bedside table, blew out the candle, and lay down beside her. For a time, he was silent, and the only sounds seemed to be the rain against the window, the popping of dying embers in the fireplace, and his thin, reedy breath behind her ear. When she perceived finally that he did not mean to touch her again, she dared to exhale fully.

"Go on to sleep."

"I cannot." She could scarce speak for the awful ache in her throat.

"I did not intend to beat you, Elinor."

She had no answer for that. Once again the silence between them was nearly overwhelming. Surely he did not expect her to forgive him.

"On the morrow, I mean to give you your wedding gift," he murmured. When she still said nothing, he continued talking to her. His hand stroked her hair again. "It's emeralds—they will become you."

She did not want them. She did not want anything from him. Not now. Not ever.

"I have engaged a woman from the village to sew for you. While she cannot match the work of a London modiste, she is quite good. If you would like, I shall send for her in the morning. Later, in London—"

"Papa bought me dresses."

"Paltry, my dear. Paltry. When I take you to London, you will be gowned by the best." His hand moved to smooth her nightgown over her hip. "You will gain me the envy of every man in town, Elinor." He felt her stiffen anew, and he drew away. "You think you hate me, don't you?"

"Yes."

"You won't. You will come to realize what I can give you, my dear. When I am done, there will be none to think you are not beautiful. You will attend routs and parties, royal presentations even, and you will be the reigning Toast," he predicted almost smugly.

She didn't care—all she wished was to be rid of him. "I should like that," she responded finally, her voice betraying a decided lack of enthusiasm.

"Your task will not be onerous, my dear. You have but to appear devoted to your husband. And I shall not be demanding, I promise you." He coughed to clear his throat. "I shall not be demanding," he repeated, "but I intend to seek your bed twice each week—shall we say Wednesday and Saturday—to avert unpleasant gossip. I'd not be the butt of servants' jests, do you understand?"

"No."

"You will speak of nothing that has passed here," he said again.

"Do I have to—that is, you will not—?" She could not bring herself to say it.

"No. As long as you are obedient, you need not fear me again, child. I would do nothing to mar your looks."

She breathed an audible sigh of relief that he would not touch her again, not like her mother had told her. For a moment, she dared to hope he would leave her this night. But his next words dashed that.

"Come—let us sleep. I'd have your hand, my dear." , She did not want to touch him either, but neither did she wish to anger him again. Very gingerly, she extended her hand at her side, and his cold fingers curved over hers.

"Why did you wed me?" she managed to ask.

There was a long silence, and for a time, she thought he'd not heard her. Finally, he spoke. "Vanity, my dear. It flatters me to know I am envied. I came into the world but plain Arthur Kingsley, and now there's none as can ignore me. When I had but money, it was not enough. And when I was able to gain a title, it was still the same. But I have had the last jest of all, have I not? Now I shall be envied for you."

"But there were others—"

"Think you I did not look? For years I have surveyed the daughters of the
ton,
but they were all too good to spend my money—and not a one of them above the common style, mind you." For the briefest moment, his fingers squeezed hers. "You, my dear, are not common at all."

"But—"

"And when I am done, you will be not an Incomparable, but rather
the
Incomparable. When I am done, we will give each other consequence, my dear. Wealth for beauty—it's a fair exchange, is it not?" When she said nothing, he predicted, "One day you will thank me for what I give you, Elinor."

It was as though her father spoke the words. But it would do no good to tell the old man it was a lie. Instead, she merely murmured, "Good night, sir."

"Arthur. It's 'good night,
Arthur,'
" he corrected her.

Long after his breathing evened out, long after he began to snore, she lay beside him, her hand in his. Was this marriage? Was this what every girl was supposed to want? To be touched like that? A new shudder of revulsion coursed through her, and for a moment, nausea rose again, forcing her to swallow the awful lump in her throat. No, it could not be. She was surely living a nightmare from which she would waken. Tomorrow, she would find this had not happened to her. But in her heart, she knew it was not a nightmare at all, but rather a dismal, lonely life she'd discover when she wakened. Very gingerly, she eased her fingers from his, and turned to stare into the glowing coals.

Outside, the wind seemed to have died, but the rain still pelted the tiled roof. Still, she could not sleep, thinking of the old man beside her, wondering if one night he would die in her bed. The only thing worse, she knew, would be if he should live until she were no longer young. And as they had so often done in the two months past, her thoughts turned once again to the notorious Earl of Longford—remembering the strength of his arms, the passion of his kiss, she wondered how on earth his wife could have preferred another man. Scoundrel, rake, or whatever, he would have been infinitely preferable to Arthur Kingsley. But she supposed Longford's wife to be quite beautiful, and no doubt she'd had scores of young bucks at her feet. She, on the other hand, had only Arthur.

CHAPTER 4

She was one of the loveliest women he'd ever seen, he admitted that. She was also the biggest mistake of his life, and he was ready to put her behind him. He leaned back in his chair, facing her across the length of the bishop's meeting table, and took stock of the woman who had been his wife for two years.

She was in her best looks, her pale, wheat-blond hair curling delicately beneath the wide brim of a blue velvet bonnet, her porcelain skin infused with the barest tint of rose, her wide blue eyes reflecting an innocence totally at variance with the woman within. Even the prim, braid-edged blue velvet pelisse, unbuttoned to show a demure, lace-trimmed blue muslin gown, had been worn to elicit sympathy from the clergy present, he decided cynically. Blue was her color, and she knew it. It was also a color that was cool, delicate, and devoid of passion, the sort of thing one ought to wear to church.

"Harumph!" The bishop, Lord Quentin Harwell, cleared his throat, shuffled through an untidy stack of papers, and looked to Lucien. "You are unrepresented, my lord?"

"Yes."

He turned to Diana. "Are you, my lady?"

"I have brought my parents, Lord and Lady Fenton, and my solicitor, Mr. Tate," she answered softly.

"Is Lord Townsend present?" he inquired of one of the priests beside him.

"No, he is not. But as you know, he has changed his mind and decided to admit to the charges."

"A pity, for he must surely provide enlightenment."

"You have his deposition," Lucien reminded him curtly. "And I'd get on with this—with your permission, of course."

Harwell flashed him a look of disapproval. "Yes— well—" He cleared his throat again. "Highly irregular, I admit it, but I thought perhaps we could attempt a reconciliation."

"No." Lucien appeared absorbed in a nub of lint on the sleeve of his blue superfine coat for a moment, then he shook his head. "No, I don't think so."

Mr. Tate rose. "My lord bishop, Lady Longford does not desire a separation from her husband."

"What Lady Longford desires is immaterial at this point, Lucien declared coldly. "I intend to press for the divorce." He indicated the stack of papers. "You have more than enough evidence before you to support the charge I have brought against her."

"My lord bishop, if I may speak—" Lord Fenton rose to stand behind his daughter. "There has never been the slightest taint of scandal in this family, and naturally we should not wish to embroil ourselves in a public airing of grievances. Surely Longford himself is not blameless in the matter." He looked down, and resting his hand on Diana's shoulder, he went on, "There is the unfortunate circumstance of a number of"—he covered his mouth and coughed discreetly—"Forgive me for having to say this before the ladies, but it's well known that Longford has engaged in a number of alliances with other females."

"Inadmissable," Lucien retorted.

"Unfortunately, adultery, reprehensible though it is, is not a crime for a male," Bishop Harwell reminded Diana's father.

"But it was nonetheless devastating to a young wife eager to please her husband," Fenton argued. "Can she be blamed for falling prey to the attentions of an acknowledged rake like Bellamy Townsend when she has been all but deserted by Longford?"

"She does not deny the charge?" Harwell asked, leaning forward.

Diana lowered her head and stared at the table, but not before she summoned a couple of tears to her eyes. "No," she whispered almost inaudibly. "I did but wish to show Lucien the pain he has inflicted on me."

She should have been an actress, Lucien reflected bitterly, for had he not known better, he could almost have believed her himself. But he knew better. He knew if he told the whole truth, the lie that wounded his vanity still, every man in the room must surely feel the revulsion he felt. But for all that he wanted rid of her, he could not bring himself to touch upon that. Two years had not dimmed the bitterness he still felt toward her and Mad Jack. No, he would not tell them that Bell Townsend had been a godsend.

"Her motives are also immaterial," he stated abruptly.

The bishop had hoped to avoid a hearing of record, but he could see that the earl had not the least intention of being amenable to saving anyone's face, not even his own. Succumbing to a certain curiosity, he turned to the young countess.

"Perhaps you can explain yourself to your husband, Lady Longford. Perhaps that would alter—"

"Think you I have not tried?" she cried, dabbing at her welling eyes. "He is but determined to be rid of me!"

"Here now, Diana—" Her father patted her shoulder. "Most irregular," Mr. Tate protested. "My lord bishop—"

"If it will end the matter, I am prepared to listen now," Lucien said. Taking out his watch, he flicked open the case and checked the time. "But whatever is said, I'd see it said quickly. I am promised to Leighton for the holidays, and I mean to leave within the hour." He favored his wife with a sardonic smile. "You behold me all ears, my dear."

She did not look at him. Instead, she focused on the bishop and the local vicar, who was regarding her kindly. "I did not mean to do it—it—it just happened. Lucien was gone so much, and—and I believed he did not care for me—" Her shoulders shook slightly, and she stopped, looking up through wet lashes. "Lord Townsend seemed so kind—so attentive—and Lucien was never there." Turning finally to Lucien, she cried, "You know it's true! You never cared for me, did you?"

"No," he admitted baldly. "But I paid your bills."

"That was not enough! You found me a crushing bore! And Bell—" Her voice dropped. "Bell did not."

Seizing the advantage her tears gave him, Tate rose again. "My lord bishop, Lady Longford is desirous of a reconciliation. Is that not true, my lady?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"Very affecting, my dear," Lucien murmured, "but I am not thrice the fool."

"Surely there must have been some measure of affection when you wed her," the parish vicar reminded him.

"No."

"Then why in heaven's name did you offer for her?" the bishop demanded.

"Folly."

It was no use, and they all knew it. Finally, the Fen-tons' solicitor sighed. "Very well, my lord. If we concede that a reconciliation cannot be effected, my client is prepared to return discreetly to her family. She will, however, require a suitable allowance."

"Not a legal separation, of course," Lord Fenton hastily inserted. "Appearances—"

"Appearances be damned," Lucien interrupted coldly. "I shall be satisfied with nothing less than a divorce."

"It will be disastrous for both of you!" Fenton shouted at him. "Speak of folly, will you?
This
is utter folly!"

The bishop pursed his lips in disapproval, then addressed Lucien heavily, "I beg you will think on this, my lord. There will be unfortunate consequences—it's possible that neither of you will be received in society after the scandal."

"Possible!" Fenton snorted. "It's certain!"

"Perhaps Lord Longford has not considered—" Lady Fenton ventured timidly.

"It's ruination!" her husband insisted. "Ruination!"

Lucien rose and reached for his beaver hat. Turning to face the censure of the others, he shrugged. "It is a risk I am prepared to take. Good day, Diana. Lady Fenton." He bowed slightly toward the three clergymen. "Gentlemen."

Mr. Tate licked his lips nervously. "Wait—what of the settlements? You cannot merely abandon Lady Longford, sir."

"Lucien!" For a moment, Diana's mask slipped. "I shall be destitute! You cannot do this to me! Your father would not have wanted this!" Then, realizing what she'd said, she looked away.

For a moment, he felt betrayed again, and he had to force himself to hold his tongue. For all that Mad Jack was dead, he still hated him.

"The criminal court will assess damages on Town-send, and Longford will be compelled to settle an allowance on his wife before the matter can go before Parliament," the bishop reminded them. "But I cannot say you are being very civil in the matter, my lord," he added, addressing Lucien.

"Bell's solicitor assures me he does not intend to dispute the facts of my suit, and we have agreed to a sum of five thousand pounds."

"I object!" Tate protested. "We were not party to this, sir!"

"Unfortunately, we do not have jurisdiction over that portion of the matter," Bishop Harwell reminded him. "We can but decide if there are grounds for the separation. And," he continued, sighing, "the evidence does support the action Longford has brought against Lady Longford."

"Thank you." Lucien adjusted his hat to a rakish angle and turned to leave.

"I cannot live on five thousand pounds!" Then, perceiving how she must sound, Diana lowered her head and her voice. "That is, I should require an allowance."

"Before the Lords will hear the case, that must be agreed upon," the bishop murmured soothingly.

Lucien swung around. "I am willing to return what she brought to me upon the marriage."

"Paltry, sir!" Fenton howled, outraged.

Lucien's smile deepened. "You did not think so at the time," he murmured.

Knowing that Townsend's guilty plea would make his client's position untenable, Mr. Tate cleared his throat and prepared to sound reasonable. "My lord," he appealed to Lucien, "a small allowance in addition to the lump-sum distribution—" As the earl's smile faded, he went on hastily, "You are a wealthy man, and you would not have it perceived that you are unprepared to do the right thing—" He stopped, aware that Lucien's eyebrows had raised incredulously. "Yes, well—I should think that we could accept two thousand per annum," he finished lamely.

"Two thousand? I shall be in rags!" Diana screeched.

"I have no intention of providing an allowance, gentlemen. When the matter is settled, I mean to cut the connection completely."

"Dash it, but how's she to live?" Fenton demanded angrily.

"I will settle the five thousand from Townsend and the two thousand agreed upon at the marriage. Beyond that, I do not mean to give her a farthing."

"Seven thousand pounds?" The vicar, whose living was not one-tenth that nodded his head. "Most generous, my lord."

"Generous?" Diana wailed. "I shall have to practice the most shocking economies!"

"You can dispute it, of course, but in the process of a lengthy hearing, there is no telling what might come out," Lucien murmured meaningfully. "And neither of us would wish that, would we?" he added silkily.

Her father glanced uneasily to the solicitor, then exhaled heavily. It was all she was going to get, and he knew it. Under the circumstances, he had to admit to himself that it was more than Diana deserved. "Here now—no need to rake old coals, is there? If we accept— if we do not dispute the divorce—"

Lucien nodded. "There will be no need to bring more than the one charge against her."

"Papa!"

But Fenton was watching Lucien. "You will see the matter expedited as quickly and quietly as possible?"

"I cannot see any delay. As I shall be leaving the country after the holidays, and as Bell is prepared to plead guilty, Leighton has assured me he will offer the bill in Lords before spring."

"You do not mean to be there?"

"If it is undisputed, I see no necessity of it."

"We can sue for more," Tate reminded Fenton.

"I should not advise it," Lucien said shortly, his eyes on Diana's father.

"No, of course not. I had hoped for more, but I am prepared to agree."

"I thought you would. You may deal with Leighton in my absence, and George will see the papers are forwarded. Good day."

As he entered the foyer where the viscount awaited him, he could hear the low murmur of dissatisfaction behind him. It didn't matter—he meant to put that portion of his life behind him.

"How'd it go?" Leighton asked soberly.

"As well as could be expected."

"Bad business."

"Yes."

It was not until they were in the viscount's carriage that either spoke again. Leighton wiped the steam from his window and peered outside. "Looks as though it might snow."

Lucien did not answer. Instead, he leaned back, resting his head against the button-tufted velvet squabs. For a long time, he stared absently toward the ceiling. Finally, his friend could stand it no longer.

"Are you going through with the divorce?"

Lucien nodded. "I told them you would tend to everything for me."

"Well, I will, but I still cannot believe you mean to sign up. You are as mad as Mad Jack!"

"I've already done it."

"War's a nasty, uncivilized business. Liable to come home in a box," Leighton declared glumly.

"I doubt many would count it a loss."

"Ain't no reason for you to go! Dash it, but let Diana flee the country! It ain't as if you was the guilty party, is it?"

"I'd not talk about the divorce, George. Let us proceed with the holidays. Besides, it's to be expected that Mad Jack's son would want to go, don't you think? After all, everyone expects me to be like him," he added bitterly.

"Before your uncle died, Jack was the younger son. Ain't the same—you got the money and the title. You know, sometimes I think I don't know you at all," Leighton grumbled.

"How far is Stoneleigh from your place?" Lucien asked abruptly. "Or more to the point, how far is it from Langston Park? I bought the Park, you know."

"Neighbors then. Six or so miles from my house, depending on the road taken. Park's even closer. Why?"

"I have a bit of business there—a country party, I believe." He reached into his coat pocket and drew out Ashton's letter. "On the seventh of January."

"At Stoneleigh? Didn't know you knew Kingsley, and cannot think why you would want to pursue the acquaintance, anyway. Deuced encroaching fellow, if you was to ask me. Bought the title, you know."

"The old mushroom has wed."

"Wed! At his age?" For a moment, Leighton was diverted. "Got him a dowager, eh?"

"An infant."

"Thought he was too old to have one in the oven."

"My dear George, as far as I know the girl is not increasing—it's the infant he's wed." Lucien recalled his brief encounter with Elinor Ashton and her father. "A fifteen-year-old beauty."