B006O3T9DG EBOK (54 page)

That was a great impertinence. The sudden tenderness, however, touched her.

She said, “I stumbled gaining the carriage.”

“And this?” he pointed to another, less obvious bruise upon her chin.

“I stumbled gaining the carriage.”

“What of this lovely purple one just here?”

“I stumbled gaining the carriage.”

“I thought perhaps you stumbled against your husband’s hand.”

With a heavy sigh, she admitted the obvious, “He is a beast.”

“How can you stay with him?”

She said with prim cynicism, “I have solaced my wretchedness with a sumptuous new carriage and the promise of a house in Manchester Square.”

“Surely, a woman of your
savoir-vivre
would not be without a design of some sort,” he cajoled. “You are far too venturesome.”

“I am to give him a child and he is to give me a generous allotment and a....”

“A regular beating?” he bid. “Or is that just a tawdry rumour?”

A chill overtook her. Her countenance did not reflect her apprehension. The care she took not to reveal her discomposure included masking a great revelation. Not only had her husband beaten her in the privacy of their chambers, he must have boasted of it to his friends.

No doubt details of their sexual conduct had been tittered about in every gentleman’s club in London. The coarse laughter echoed in her ears even then. His was the worst kind of betrayal—far worse than flagellation, or even the back of his hand. She had never believed Howgrave struck a particularly fine figure, but neither did she expect him to be such a dishonourable wretch.

She had little left in the world but her vanity. Now she was robbed of that as well. The world at large was witting, not only of her humiliation, but the worst of his character. Therefore, she would be unable to pillory him herself.

“It was my intention to give my husband a son, take his money, retire to Marseille, and write my memoirs. If he was generous, it would not be necessary to be explicit. If he was not, I was to recall every scandalous detail of his peculiar peccadilloes.”

“Extortion,” Alistair smiled.

She corrected him, “Not
extorsion
, mon ami, a
roman à clef
. He would be seen as a buffoon—a laughingstock. He would rue the day he raised a hand to me.”

Her voice was flat, emotionless.

In an attempt to raise her spirits, he said, “Such a book would still be well-taken. It might not carry the same weight with those who were witting of his perversions, but their wives would certainly be entertained.”

She said dejectedly, “I am left with only one way of escape.”

He awaited her elucidation.

“I must birth a child.”

Alistair furrowed his brow with engaging inauthenticity.

“Despite his proclivities, surely your husband attends your bed properly. No man could withstand your allurement. No one suggests Howgrave buggers boys.”

His sentiments were not expressed with great élan. Seldom, however, were words better timed. She staunched any remarks unbeneficial to her very tenuous situation. Alistair was no naïf. Clearly, he knew of flagellation. To Howgrave, the whip only inflamed his desire, not requited it.

“His diligence often goes unrewarded,” she said glumly.

Alistair queried, “Have you considered... a proxy?”

She looked upon him coyly, “Are you offering your services?”

“I dare say that it sounds as if her ladyship has no spate of offers. Unless you enlist a draft, gentlemen may not be aware that the post is vacant.”

She said, “Your concern does you credit. Nonetheless, I have chosen a surrogate. As you can imagine, it is a matter of some delicacy.”

Juliette was even more determined to have her revenge against Howgrave. Nothing would injure that under-hung weasel’s self-possession more than being unmanned by the very repository of aristocratic arrogance, Mr. Darcy of Derbyshire. Granted, she had promised Darcy compleat discretion. However much she was in want of keeping her word to him on that, circumstances had altered. Now it was her all-consuming desire to throw it all (the affair with and child by Darcy) in her husband’s face. This, of course, would be only after the transfer of funds had been made.

Chapter 73

The Dog Will Have Its Day

At one time, Cressida followed her master and mistress from room to room. Of late she had grown too enfeebled. The poor dog had not the strength to climb upon the bed. Rheumy-eyed and half-blind, she thrashed in her sleep, chasing after rabbits only in her dreams. Neither of the Darcys could fathom consigning her to the kennels. That was how it came about that Graeme, a stalwart young man with a kind face and gentle hand, was consigned to be Cressida’s sole caretaker. Graeme alone was to see that the dog was carried from one room to the next.

When alone in their bedchamber, however, Elizabeth did not call for Graeme to attend Cressida.

Mrs. Darcy was disinclined to meddle with the operation of a household that had been in place for centuries. It was her particular wish not to be tended by housemaids and footmen once the Darcys had retired for the night. That had been her single request, a preference initiated upon the Darcys first night together. (Her humiliation upon being found naked in the bed with the master of the house was no longer recalled with abhorrence, but it was hardly forgot.) They re-pledged themselves to decorum due to their children’s habit of prowling about.

That meant their time-honoured tradition of consigning the dog to the corridor once connubial pleasures had commenced, had remained in place. The only adjustment was that Cressida no longer took leave under her own power. As Cressida had been a great comfort to her in Darcy’s great away, she was happy to help the dog. When Cressida clawed at the bed-skirt, she meant to lift her herself. Darcy was quick to stop her.

“Dare not, Elizabeth! She is far too heavy!” Darcy said. “Either allow me, or have a footman collect the dog. Pray, do not exert yourself in such a manner.”

She acquiesced, saying, “One day, you may be shoving your wife aboard this bed.”

“With more pleasure, I assure you, than I do the dog,” said he.

Once ensconced on the bed, Cressida laid her muzzle on the counterpane and dolefully eyed him as Darcy read a letter from Bingley. Brushing her hair, Elizabeth inquired if there was news.

Glancing up, he said, “Bingley’s gout is much improved. He is in great hope of soon wearing his boot.”

Cressida’s tail whapped mournfully against the bed, her large eyes begging only to be petted. Tossing her brush aside, Elizabeth walked over to the dog and ruffled the soft fur behind her ears. She was rewarded by a contented whine. Seeing his wife unattended, Darcy came to her. He wrapped a shawl about her shoulders, giving her a kiss on the side of her neck for emphasis. Before he could step away, she leaned against him and nestled in his arms.

“I love it here,” she said. “A veil dropped over us and we are left with our true selves.”

“Are our true selves so different from those we present to the public?”

She placed her hands behind her and, after briefly caressing his thighs, she gifted him a tweak on the buttock. Taken unawares, he flinched. Then, he hastily wrestled her onto the bed.

“You are quite correct,” she teased. “We have no public facade.”

He kissed her again.

Quite unexpectedly, he released her and sat up. Then, he rose and stood by the bedpost, an expression of unease overspreading his countenance. She gazed at him quizzically. Something was certainly amiss. They had not spoken much of Lydia’s most recent (and far greatest ignominy). Elizabeth hoped that Bingley’s letter had not reignited those recollections. Scandal followed Lydia constantly. When she did not find shame, she manufactured her own. No amount of money or finery would make a lady of her. She had remained unabashedly and whole-heartedly impenitent. Elizabeth did not want to speak of Lydia just then.

If her relations were vexing him, he did not say so. His expression was unfamiliar to her. Indeed, she knew not what to make of it. He seemed oddly hesitant. When he finally looked as if he was to speak, he appeared to change his mind. Walking to Cressida, he tugged her off of the bed and urged her through the door. Before it was shut, the dog had curled up to sleep.

With Cressida settled for the night, Darcy turned and leaned his back against the door. He stayed there but a moment before returning to his position at the footboard. Elizabeth had seated herself in the middle of the bed with her legs crossed. Something in his manner bid her come to the edge of the bed and place her feet on the floor. It offered her more stability—for what, she was yet to know. She did not speak, but awaited him.

With exceeding formality, he said, “I must share with you tidings of the sort that you may find unsettling. I promise you, there is no call for alarm.”

Telling her that there was no reason for alarm, however, was to put all her senses on high alert. He curled a forefinger against his mouth to contain a small cough before continuing.

“As you well know, disguise of any sort is my abhorrence. Nonetheless, I have withheld certain information from you solely for your protection. If I have distressed you in word or action by doing so, I hereby offer my sincerest apologies.”

Her countenance betrayed little emotion, save an exceedingly eagre interest in what he was to say. In fortune, her thoughts and concerns were as familiar to him as the subtle nuances wherein they were conveyed. Hence, he perceived that she was unlikely to brook further delay in his narrative.

Choosing his words carefully (but, regrettably, through his own perspective, not his wife’s), he said, “Whilst I was in London, I engaged in a private conversation with a lady of our acquaintance. This meeting was in no way by design. The lady was simply in want of my assistance in regards to difficulties of a highly confidential nature.”

Anticipating the question, he hurried to say, “Her husband’s station is such that she believed that she had no one else to whom she could turn. I know that your trust in me is implicit, therefore, I am free to tell you that due to the intimate character of the information shared in this meeting, I must respect the lady’s privacy and make no further elucidation upon the incident.”

His position, once so sure, wavered ever so slightly. Somewhere in his recitation, the possibility that he had erred presented itself. Therefore, he felt moved to repeat the pertinent facts.

Taking a deep breath, he said, “To summarise, I am to advise you that whilst in London....”

Here, Elizabeth interrupted. Her voice had a pinched quality, one that did no bode well for the supposition that she would accept his rationale as befitting a man of keen insight and superior judgement. Indeed, she looked at him as if he had gone off his head.

She said, “You are confessing to me that whilst in London you engaged in an assignation with a woman you refuse to name and exchanged confidences of such intimacy that you are unable to repeat them to me?”

Mr. Darcy was unused to being scolded and he thought that he did not like it.

In a voice dripping with condescension, he said, “Allow me to apprise you that the information just related by me, to you, in no way could be described as ‘confessional’, nor was the meeting an ‘assignation’.”

With one eyebrow raised, she disputed that he was, in any manner, the aggrieved party. He pursed his lips, not in agreement, but that she had a point. She made the most of it.