Deceived (13 page)
Authors: Bertrice Small
Valerian was furious with himself. Never in his entire life had he behaved this way with a woman. Any woman. Her threat, however, had been a powerful one. Even if he succeeded in annulling their union, her accusations could indeed ruin his chances for another marriage, even to Aurora. The scandal would be incredible, and his family would be barred from court. The new king was a moral young man with plans for marriage to a respectable princess. It was his own fault. He should have sent for the Kimberlys to come to England so he might get to know them before he married Calandra. He should have been suspicious when she refused to even let him kiss her in the plantation gardens. She had been his betrothed wife, not some debutante he was seeking to seduce.
He should have known something was wrong.
It was all his fault, and now there was nothing to do but that she give him the children he wanted whether she desired his attentions or not.
He should have known something was wrong.
It was all his fault, and now there was nothing to do but that she give him the children he wanted whether she desired his attentions or not.
“You will not have to endure my passion,” he told her, “once you are with child.” He looked down on her. She was very beautiful, but he felt absolutely no lust for her at all. His member lay limp. Calandra gazed scornfully at it, silently taunting. He could have sworn she was trying to smile. The bitch was mocking him! At that moment he realized that he hated her. Hated her as much as he now knew he loved Aurora.
Aurora.
His mind went back to that day on St. Timothy when he had accidentally come down to the beach and seen her frolicking in the blue-green waters of the sea. Then she had come up onto the beach all golden in color. As warm as the sunlight itself. He remembered her long legs, her perfectly round little breasts the size of ripe peaches, the pretty tangle of curls at the junction of her thighs that had glistened with little crystal drops of water.
And he had desired her then.
Even as he desired her now.
His mind went back to that day on St. Timothy when he had accidentally come down to the beach and seen her frolicking in the blue-green waters of the sea. Then she had come up onto the beach all golden in color. As warm as the sunlight itself. He remembered her long legs, her perfectly round little breasts the size of ripe peaches, the pretty tangle of curls at the junction of her thighs that had glistened with little crystal drops of water.
And he had desired her then.
Even as he desired her now.
Cally whimpered, her eyes riveted to his groin where his member now thrust forth, hard as iron, and ready to plow her furrow. Dispassionately, he looked first at her, then at his manhood. Coldly pulling her legs apart, he leaned forward to pinion her arms and pushed himself into her. His desire for Aurora was great, and he quickly spilled his seed into his wife. Her look of revulsion soothed his troubled conscience. He remained with her long enough to assure she did not flush the seed from her body, and then, untying the handkerchief from her mouth, he arose from her bed.
“We will do this every night until I am convinced you are with child, Calandra,” he told her with brutal frankness. “If you attempt to cry out, I will gag you once again. You will cause no upset within my house. Once you have given me a healthy son, then I shall leave you in peace for the rest of your days. You may go to London. You may go to Paris. You may go to hell for all I care. But you will go nowhere until I have my heir. Is that understood?”
She nodded, stunned by his determination.
“And tomorrow you will appear at the dinner table. I will tolerate no more sulking on your part. Is that also understood?”
“Yes,” Cally whispered.
The duke picked up his dressing gown, and, wrapping it about himself, departed her chamber through the connecting door. Within the privacy of his own rooms he sagged against the chifforobe. He felt absolutely drained, and disgusted with himself, but what other choice had he had? He had heard of women like Calandra who disliked the sexual act entirely. Some women, he knew, preferred other women as lovers, as some men preferred those of their own kind. There were those who had lovers of both sexes, and then there were those very few like his wife for whom physical passion was repellent. What a pity she had been spoiled as a child by the planter from Barbados, who had touched her as no decent man should a little girl. That monster would have eventually raped Calandra had not the vigilant Martha discovered them.
Had Calandra been born with some inner distaste for lust and for love? Or had that youthful experience hurt and frightened her? If he had behaved differently, could he have taught her the joys of passion? He wanted to believe he could, but in his heart he knew that he could not. He had never been rough with his wife until that night. He had been patient and gentle with her. When he had finally gotten into her bed, it had been three nights before he had taken her virginity. Valerian Hawkesworth did not know what else he could have done. Now neither of them had a choice in the matter. He needed an heir, and Calandra wanted to remain Duchess of Farminster. It was a heavy burden he had to bear, and he would have to bear it alone. With a sigh he took off his dressing gown and put on the silk nightshirt that Browne had left at the foot of his bed before climbing between the lavender-scented sheets.
He had seen the shock in Calandra's eyes when his manhood had responded to his secret thoughts of Aurora. He wondered what his wife would think should she learn the object of his desire was her own sister. Hellfire and damnation, how he wanted her! But he would never have her except in his lonely dreams. He would have to cooperate with his grandmother to find Aurora a husband, and he would have to stand by as she was married to another man. A stranger who would get to plunder Aurora's sweetness as he never would. He hated the thought. Closing his eyes, he attempted to sleep.
In the morning the ladies always took breakfast on trays in their bedchambers. At luncheon, however, the duke was surprised to find his wife joining them at table. While a trifle paler than normal, Calandra looked none the worse for wear. Greeting him politely, she took her place, smiling brightly at those assembled.
“I am almost recovered from our journey,” she said, and turned to the dowager. “And you, ma'am? You are looking well today.”
Mary Rose Hawkesworth's thin eyebrow rose imperceptibly. “I am still tired,” she said, “but then, I am a great deal older than you are, my dear. Still, I could not bear my own company another minute. Aurora, I am told you have been amusing yourself with our library.”
“It's a wonderful library,” Aurora responded. “Cally, how pretty you look,” she told her sister. “I was worried about you.”
“You need not have fretted,” Cally replied. “How typical of you, Aurora, to spend all your time in a library. You will ruin your eyes and get wrinkles, I fear.” She turned back to the dowager. “We must plan a ball, ma'am, if we are to launch my sister and brother onto the sea of matrimony. You know all the country folk to invite.”
“Indeed I do. I thought, perhaps, Calandra, that the first of May would be a delightful time. All the villages celebrate with Maypoles, dancing, and bonfires. Would that suit you?”
“Can we not do it sooner?” Cally asked.
The dowager shook her head. “I am afraid not. There is a great deal of planning to a ball, Calandra, as you will see, since I expect you to help me plan it. Eventually you will plan all your balls yourself, but as this will be your first fete at Hawkes Hill, I will help you. There is much to do.”
“Like what?” Cally was genuinely curious.
“Well, for starters,” the dowager said, “the ballroom must be refurbished and thoroughly cleaned, the floors polished to a high gloss, the crystal chandeliers all washed and polished and set with freshly dipped candles. A menu must be selected and planned for those invited to dinner beforehand. We can seat only fifty. There are, of course, invitations to be issued, and they must all arrive on the same day else any guest feel slighted by learning another had received his or her invitation first. The gardeners must be certain that there are plenty of fresh flowers from the greenhouses for the hallway, the drawing room, the dining room, the ballroom. What cannot be supplied by our greenhouses must be begged from neighbors. We will have to hire young men and women from the village to help out as maids and footmen, and in the kitchens. And musicians, of course! Some of our guests may be invited to remain overnight, and so there must be bedrooms prepared for them.”
“There is a great deal of detail to it, isn't there?” Calandra said, suddenly not quite so enthusiastic. “Can we not hire someone to do it all? And what of a seamstress? I will certainly need a new ball gown. I can hardly greet my guest in an old ball gown.”
“Since none of our guests will have seen any of your ball gowns, Calandra, I do not understand why you need another one,” Valerian said dryly.
She glared at him. “Do not be such a pinchpenny with me, sir. I will not embarrass myself by appearing in an old ball gown.”
“Then you shall not,” he said, “nor shall any of my ladies. A seamstress shall be called in to make ball gowns for you and Aurora and Grandmama. It is only fair, I think.”
“What a fine idea!” his grandmother said, a twinkle in her eye.
“I do not really need another gown,” Aurora said, “but I will not refuse your kind offer, Valerian. Perhaps, Cally, you will let me help you and Lady Mary Rose to repay my lord duke's kindness.”
“Oh, yes! You were always better than I in matters like this,” Cally said, delighted that her sister had volunteered her services. Perhaps she would not be angry at Aurora any longer. “Mama always said you were good at planning entertainments.”
Well, thought the dowager, I will have some help in this endeavor, for she had quickly seen that Calandra was going to be absolutely no help at all to her. Aurora, on the other hand, would certainly be of value, and, the dowager suspected, probably had an eye for detail.
The following day was Sunday, and they traveled down into Farminster village to church. It was March, and a brisk breeze blew across the fields. Some of the trees were beginning to show signs of leafing, their buds plump and exhibiting green. Here and there, clumps of bright yellow daffodils were in bloom. The coach horses stepped smartly down the road, drawing up before St. Anne's. A footman jumped down from the rear of the coach where he had been riding, and opening the door, lowered the steps. Holding out his hand, he helped the ladies to exit the vehicle. The gentlemen had ridden, and were even now dismounting.
The dowager led the way, nodding to this side and that as the villagers greeted her, the women curtsying, the men doffing their caps as she and her companions passed. Now and then she would stop a moment to greet someone by name. As they reached the porch of the stone church, her sharp eye spied the women she had been seeking.
“Ahhh,” the dowager said, smiling toothily, “my dear Lady Bowen. How'd ye do? And your lovely daughters too, I see, and Master William. A lovely day, isn't it? Have you met my grandson's wife, the young duchess?”
Lady Bowen was a tiny, birdlike creature with pale blue eyes and sandy-brown curls. She curtsied. “How nice it is to see your ladyship again,” she twittered, for she found the dowager formidable. “No, I haven't met the duchess yet.” Her eyes darted between the two girls.
Mary Rose Hawkesworth drew Calandra forward. “Calandra, Duchess of Farminster, Lady Elsie Bowen, the vicar's wife.”
Lady Bowen curtsied while Cally nodded coolly as she had seen her London friends do when presented with someone of a lower station.
“And this is the duchess's sister, Miss Aurora Spencer-Kimberly,” the dowager continued, more pleased when Aurora held out her hand, curtsied prettily, and greeted Lady Bowen politely, than she had been with Calandra's high tone and slightly insulting manner. She turned, calling, “Valerian, come and bid Lady Bowen a good morning before we go in to services, and bring George.” And when the two men came and the duke had done his grandmother's bidding, the old lady introduced George to the Bowens. First Lady Bowen, and then her son, William, a freckle-faced lad, who if the gossip had it correct was a little hellraiser, and his mother's despair. “And here, dear George, we have Miss Elizabeth, Miss Isabelle, Miss Suzanne, Miss Caroline, and Miss Maryanne Bowen. Such pretty girls, Lady Bowen,” she complimented their mother, “and all very accomplished, I am told. You are a fortunate parent indeed, and will certainly find husbands for them all when they are old enough.”
“Oh,” Lady Bowen twittered, “Betsy is quite old enough now!”
“Is she indeed?” the dowager purred, and then with a nod she beckoned her family into the church.
“Really, Mama!” Elizabeth Bowen was outraged, and not just a trifle embarrassed by her mother's enthusiasm.
“Well, you are old enough for marriage,” her mother protested, “and I am told that Mr. Spencer-Kimberly is looking for a wife. He will return to the western Indies, where he has been raised to continue to manage St. Timothy island plantation when he finds a suitable mate. He has an inheritance
and
an income, I am told. Would it be so terrible if he found you attractive and offered for you, Betsy?”
and
an income, I am told. Would it be so terrible if he found you attractive and offered for you, Betsy?”
“How on earth do you obtain all this information, and so quickly?” Betsy Bowen asked her mother. “Why, the duke and his family only just returned this week to Farminster, Mama.”
“I have my sources,” her parent replied smugly. “Remember, Betsy, you are not the only eligible in the neighborhood, and I have heard whispers of a ball in May at the hall. A fine young man like Mr. Spencer-Kimberly will be snapped up quickly, my girl, and your dowry is not so large that you can afford to turn up your nose at such a prize.”
“Mama! Mama! The organist is about to begin the processional,” William Bowen cried to his mother.
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