Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor (7 page)

At his end of the table, Lady Lowery and Miss Neville had engaged the vicar’s wife and Mr. Stombock, a member of Lord Sidmouth’s personal staff, on the merits of opening England’s shores to other nationalities. In truth, if his wife’s flirtations had not irritated him beyond reason, John would have enjoyed the lively conversation. As both Lady Lowery and Miss Neville had traveled extensively, they spoke eloquently of the advantages and disadvantages of the British policy. John suspected Miss Neville had been recruited to support her hostess’s words, while Sir Carter’s lady brilliantly manipulated Stombock, Thornhill, and several others within hearing. Lowery had obviously made an exemplary match.

At present, Satiné and the duchess spoke to the younger brother of the Duke of Falkenberry. Lord Randolph Morse often dropped his eyes to partake of Satiné’s and the duchess’s décolletages. Each time he did so, John’s stomach had twisted tighter. It should be his eyes–and only his–which should enjoy his wife’s charms. Satiné’s smile had remained upon her lips, and she had laughed easily at Morse’s weak attempt at humor.

When Thornhill reclaimed his duchess, Satiné had remained steadfastly by Morse’s side, and John had swallowed the bile choking his throat. He glanced to where Sir Carter watched his every move, and John nodded his acknowledgement of his friend’s concern.

John placed his empty glass of champagne upon a nearby table before accepting another from a passing footman. Since his proposal to Satiné Aldridge, he had been at sixes and sevens. He rarely imbibed, for he did not like the person he became when he drank too freely. Downing the liquid with one gulp, he strode toward where his wife kept company with Morse.

“Yet, you are Lady Swenton,” Morse said with a raised eyebrow.

John wondered what his wife had said to prompt such a response from Falkenberry’s heir. He certainly did not approve of Morse’s familiar tone. “Pardon me, Lord Morse, but I must reclaim the baroness’s attentions. I fear we must depart, my Dear.” Cynicism ran rampant through his tone.

Satiné experienced difficulty in recovering her composure, and John took perverse enjoyment in her embarrassment. “Must we?” she said with false sweetness. “This is my first foray into English Society in some two years.” Her bottom lip took on a familiar pleading pout, which John ignored.

“You forget, Baroness,” John said as he caught her elbow in a firm grasp, “we are to depart for York on the morrow.”

Morse ventured, “You mean to remove Society’s Black Rose to the depths of York?” His Lordship smiled with the confidence of those who knew their position in the world.

“I mean to escort my bride to her new home,” John warned. Morse’s “affectionate” name for Satiné rubbed John’s patience raw.

Before Morse could respond, his wife divulged John’s secret. “The baron escorts his mother’s remains to Marwood Manor.” John’s insides cringed, but his Realm training had kept his expression blank.

Morse smirked. “I thought the rumors of the former baroness’s abandonment simply that: rumors.”

John’s teeth clinched tighter, but he said, “What abandonment? It is not uncommon among the aristocracy for a husband and wife to live separately after the lady delivers an heir. The former baroness and I have remained on congenial terms.”

Morse countered, “Yet, the wife customarily resides on one of her husband’s minor estates.”

With difficulty, John made himself remain immobile. For the man’s impudence, he wished to pummel Randolph Morse soundly. “Who is to say the previous Lady Swenton did not reside in one of my father’s homes? Are you so familiar with my family business, Morse?”

“Certainly not,” Morse declared autocratically. “It is not of my concern.”

John said smugly, “In that we do agree, Your Lordship.”

Satiné asked quietly, “May I not return to Thorn Hall with the duke?”

John obstinately said, “We should call in at the nursery. I am certain Mrs. Tailor would appreciate a few moments to herself.”

Morse’s tone spoke of curiosity. “Nursery?”

“Yes. Our son Rupert…” John said with satisfaction. Not permitting his wife or Falkenberry’s brother the opportunity to respond, with a bow of respect, he guided Satiné toward where Sir Carter spoke to several gentlemen from the Home Office. “Pardon me, Lowery. Lady Swenton and I must depart. We are to York in the morning.”

“Know care, Swenton.” Lowery’s gaze fell upon the baroness, and John recognized the baronet’s disapproval. Likely, Sir Carter had noted Satiné’s flirtations.

“What of Miss Neville?” his wife asked as she tugged on her arm to free his grip.

John glanced to where Isolde sat beside Lady Lowery. The women were enjoying their animated conversation. “Permit your companion a bit more company. Thornhill will see to Miss Neville’s return.” He recognized his declaration would bring Satiné’s ire, but he could not keep the words from his lips. In his opinion, Miss Neville had acted the role of the perfect guest whereas his baroness had taken on the countenance of a jade.

Retrieving her cloak from Lowery’s footman, his wife remained stiffly silent. John knew he should be ashamed of his boorish behavior, but when he searched his conscience, he could not label his actions outside the realm of a polite response to an awkward display. He also recognized how his baroness’s seething anger would exclude him from her bed this evening.
It would be nothing unusual
, he thought in irony.

“How dare you?” his wife seethed through tight lips, as he escorted her to his waiting carriage.

John feigned his nonchalance. “How dare I what? Reclaim my bride’s allegiance? Oh, wait. I cannot reclaim what I never possessed.” He was not certain whether he was angrier with her for seeking the attentions of other men or at himself for approaching the brink of irrationality.

As if she had placed it in a beehive, Satiné jerked her hand from his when he assisted her to the let coach. “How dare you embarrass me before Lord Morse!”

He followed her into the dark coach. “Tell me, Baroness. What bothers you more about me: my dark countenance or my lesser title?”

“Both,” she hissed. John flinched internally. A faint memory of angry voices, which announced his mother’s departure, tugged at his heart. “You spoke of Rupert before His Lordship,” she accused.

“Are you discomfited by your child?” John countered.

Satiné said with a snit, “You claimed Rupert.”

John had the grace to disguise his disapproval. “We agreed I would name the boy.”

“But…”

“What? Tell me, Satiné. I am not your enemy,” he coaxed. “Surely the speed with which I acted to save your reputation should speak of my regard.”

His wife sucked in a sharp breath. “You loosely guard my character, Sir. Only a few minutes prior, you confirmed the need for our marriage by your reference to Rupert. I had earlier explained to Lord Morse the brevity of our joining. What His Lordship must think of me!”

John growled, “Lord Morse realizes you married for convenience; I am certain Morse relished the idea of another conquest. You spoke of your admiration with your eyes.”

“You think quite poorly of me.” Her mouth twisted in wry mockery.

John swallowed his earlier anger. “You err, Baroness. I knew an innocent girl who thoroughly bewitched me. I would delight in her return.”

“That Satiné Aldridge died along with her hopes,” she said bitterly. “Even the uncle she had adored all of her life abandoned her without a second look.”

*

Lucinda Lowery glanced up with a frown. “It appears the Swentons have taken an early departure.”

Isolde’s eyes had already noted the baron’s earlier misery. “Lord Swenton means to set out for York shortly after dawn.”

Lady Lowery whispered, “Sir Carter spoke of Lord Swenton’s mother. I think it admirable the baron means to return the woman’s remains to his family cemetery.”

Isolde admitted, “As do I. Family is very important to me, and the baron’s actions speak of the man he has become. Anyone with eyes for seeing and a heart for caring can recognize the pain Baron Swenton experienced at Lady Fiona’s hands.” Lady Lowery’s eyebrow rose in curiosity, but the woman made no comment. Isolde quickly changed the subject. “Do you spend much time in London?”

The woman looked lovingly upon her husband. “As Sir Carter’s position in the Home Office requires his presence in the Capital, we are often away from Huntingborne Abbey.”

“And you would have it no other way,” Isolde said conspiratorially. It was wonderful to spend an evening with a female who did not judge Isolde’s social position.

Lady Lowery’s smile spoke of the woman’s besotted state. “The baronet is quite remarkable.”

“Would you not prefer the country? You said earlier your ward enjoys the duke’s daughter as a companion. Would it not be better for the boy to know a country home?”

Lady Lowery revealed, “Simon resides with my Uncle Gerhard in Lancashire. My uncle is the Earl of Charleton, and he adores the boy. The baronet and I are expecting them in a little over a fortnight. I have seen neither since my wedding day.”

“That will be excellent for you to reunite with your loved ones. I have missed my family desperately of late. In fact, I have told the baron I mean to leave his employment once he and Baroness Swenton are settled. I shall return to Dublin.”

Lady Lowery looked upon Isolde with open curiosity. “I noted Sir Carter’s grimace at having to entertain the duchess during supper. My husband says Lady Yardley is superior to Thornhill’s wife.”

Dark amusement laced Isolde’s tone. “I hold little knowledge of the countess. Only the occasional remark from Lady Swenton. I suspect they did not part on the best of terms.”

“It was quite the scandal,” Lady Lowery confided after a quick glance about the room. “The Aldridge twins switched roles so each girl could claim the man of her heart, but Lady Yardley’s former suitor kidnapped your mistress by mistake. The baron assisted in his wife’s rescue.” Isolde nodded her head in encouragement. Lady Lowery’s explanation clarified the missing details of the baron and baroness’s previous connection. “I believe the earl and countess prefer the wilds of Northumberland rather than the ‘wilds’ of the
haut ton
.”

Isolde looked to where the duchess clung to her husband’s arm. “It is probably best,” she said cautiously, “that Lady Satiné was not successful in bringing Lord Yardley to snuff. I doubt my mistress would be happy so far from Society. She is very much of her eldest sister’s ilk.”

Lady Lowery followed Isolde’s gaze. “Lord Yardley escaped a poor match. From what I know of the Earl of Berwick, he is a very private man. Not one to flaunt his shortcomings or his successes. And as to spending time in London, he comes only to the Capital when responsibilities deem it necessary. He has an older brother who is childlike in his thinking and for whom Yardley serves as the regent for the title. Sir Carter believes his friend still thinks himself counterfeit. A woman whose thoughts dwell heavy on fashion and frills would never have suited the earl’s pastoral lifestyle.”

A quiver of insecurity spoke of Isolde’s liability. “I realize we know each other not, Lady Lowery, but I am grateful you have chosen to speak to me with honesty. In truth, I cannot recall a more pleasant evening.”

“Neither can I,” Lady Lowery admitted. “You remind me of my sister in marriage. Lady Hellsman speaks openly, without any form of artifice. I assure you, I regularly guard my tongue more closely than I have in your company.” She chuckled. “After all, my husband is a political advocate.”

Isolde breathed easier, having readily come to a decision. “Would you speak your opinion of the duchess?”

She looked on as Lady Lowery carefully chose her words. “My late husband and Thornhill knew each other at university and again, under Wellington, on the Continental front. The duke offered his assistance when Simon appeared in my life.”

Isolde understood immediately. “The duchess did not approve of her husband looking kindly on another woman.”

Self-mockery gleamed in Lady Lowery’s eyes. “The duke complicated the matter by personally inviting me to his sister’s and cousin’s Come Out ball.” She leaned closer to assure privacy. “The Duchess of Thornhill is the said cousin.”

Isolde stifled her girlish giggle. “And you must reside as neighbors. Oh, my.”

“And our husbands served together during the war years and within the same unit.”

“Double, oh, my.” Isolde grinned widely.

Lady Lowery nodded her agreement. “The duchess is still quite young, and my uncle’s lady friend, Viscountess Gibbons, believes once the girl has known a bit more of life’s tribulations, the duchess shall become more tolerant of others and be more empathetic.”

“Lady Swenton has known her share of evils, but I do not observe her as possessing a benevolent bone in her body, especially when it comes to Baron Swenton’s kindness.”

“Explain,” Lady Lowery insisted.

Isolde’s weary eyes closed; she summoned an image of the stark countenance of the baron. “If Lady Satiné was not an appropriate match for the very private Earl of Berwick, how will she ever be satisfied with an equally private Baron Swenton? Is my mistress likely to destroy the one man who affects her?”

John looked up at the sound of a soft tread on the steps and had hoped it was his wife, but he knew after the row they had had once they reached their suite of rooms, Satiné would attempt to punish him by refusing to travel to York. Of course, he could physically force her to accompany him. By law, once they had spoken their vows, his wife was his property; yet, it was not in John’s nature to compel any woman to follow his orders. Besides, what marital felicity could he hope to achieve if he carried Satiné off in the manner of Lachlan Charters.

“Miss Neville,” he said softly as she approached. “I suppose your presence announces my wife’s
illness
has returned.”

The lady’s lips twitched in mild bemusement. “De reir a cheile a thogtar na caisleain.”

His arms folded across his chest, and John’s smile widened. “What if I have not the inclination to take up construction?”

The lady gave a pleased chuckle. “You speak my tongue, Baron.”

A gentleman could spend a lifetime lost in the woman’s mesmerizing eyes. “
Speak
is a bit of an exaggeration. I have heard many of my neighbors warning me it takes time to build castles.”

“The baroness has expressed a desire to remain under her sister’s roof.”

John knew in York he remained a source of speculation, and this new situation would only add to the rumors. How could he explain he had returned his mother to the estate she had despised, as well as to speak of the woman he had chosen to replace Lady Fiona refusing to step one foot within his home? “I wish I could say I expected otherwise,” he admitted. “Is minic a gheibhean beal oscailt diog dunta.”

“An open mouth often catches a closed fist. It is an appropriate saying based on what I observed last evening, but is folamh fuar e teach gan bean.”

John led her into a shadowy sitting room for privacy. “If your words are true, Miss Neville, my house will remain cold: My wife means to deal severely with me.” A sudden, not wholly unpleasant sensation raced down John’s spine. He could smell the trace of an exotic spice on the woman’s skin, and his composure was immediately thrown off guard. “What should I do to convince Lady Swenton of the sincerity of my affections?”
And convince me also
, he thought.

“Your lady, Sir, is quite young…” Miss Neville began.

John interrupted, “The baroness is the same age as Lady Yardley, as well as Lady Lexford. Neither woman ignores her husband nor does either regard her position as unbearable.”

Miss Neville’s gaze narrowed. “Surely you knew of Lady Swenton’s disposition before you thought to marry her.”

John confessed, “Ours was a short acquaintance under difficult circumstances.” Their eyes locked for a moment as he probed the depths of Miss Neville’s reason. For a few brief seconds, his mind repeated the phrase, “What if?”

“It is a chasm of your own making, Baron, and there will be no easy means to a resolution. Permit your wife her way, but not indefinitely. Before you depart for York, speak to your lady. Explain to her how long you mean to be away and what you expect of her upon your return. Your absence will provide Lady Swenton time to settle upon what is her duty. Even though I find the duchess’s obsessive interest in fashion tedious, Thornhill’s bride does not deny her responsibilities to her husband. Lady Swenton could learn much from her eldest sister.”

John gave a faint grimace. “Your suggestion holds merit,” he said grudgingly. “I possess no choice but to bolster my relationship with the baroness,” he said with unconscious disappointment.

“Yes. You should do so before the stables bring your horse around.” She stepped away as if to permit him to pass before her, but in the semi-darkness, Miss Neville’s foot caught the edge of the carpet, and she stumbled backward.

Instinctively, John’s hands shot out to catch her by the shoulders, jerking the lady into his embrace. She landed solidly against his chest while John locked his hands behind her. Miss Neville’s soft curves rested against the hard planes of his body. A flare of desire shot through his veins as he inhaled her scent deep into his lungs. “Are you injured?” he whispered huskily into her ear.

The lady pushed against his chest to extricate herself from his grasp. “I am well, Lord Swenton. My gratitude for your quick response.” Reluctantly, John released her. “I should see to the baroness’s breakfast.” Her voice was as shaky as his.

It took several elongated seconds before his scattered thoughts could return to some sort of order. “If you feel I should return sooner than I anticipate, you will write to me at Marwood Manor.” John slipped two guineas into her hand.

“Of course, Sir.” Miss Neville deposited the coins into the pocket of her apron. “How long do you expect to be absent?”

He thought it odd this woman had thought to ask the questions his wife had not. “Depending on the weather, it would be three, maybe four days, to my estate. I must oversee Lady Fiona’s return, and I imagine my desk is stacked high with correspondence regarding estate business. It will be at least a fortnight, more likely a month before I can return. It is spring planting, and my cottagers will seek my guidance.”

“Then I shall include you in my prayers, Lord Swenton. Your safe come back will be welcomed heartily.”

John doubted Satiné would
welcome
his presence, but after speaking to Miss Neville, he was more determined to teach his young wife to tolerate his presence in her life. “Your kindness knows no bottom, Miss Neville. Farewell.” He bowed before making a quick exit. He thought upon his sad state: he held responsibilities and obligations to a woman, whose worth John had begun to question.

*

Isolde watched him cross the foyer to mount the stairs leading to the baroness’s suite. Lord Swenton was the most compelling man she had ever known. Licorice black hair. Vivid dark eyes. Intense masculinity. Ruggedly fit and muscular. Solidly built, with an enticing smile shared all too rarely. She shook her head to order her incoherent thoughts. “Not for you,” she whispered. “Lord Swenton is a married man.”

The memory of last evening’s encounter rose quickly to her mind. She had returned to Thorn Hall with the duke and duchess to be greeted by His Grace’s butler, with the information of a heated disagreement in progress in the Swentons’ quarters.

Isolde and the duke had rushed to the adjoining rooms before His Grace signaling for Isolde to enter first. Surprisingly, the baroness’s room was empty, but not so the baron’s.

Cautiously, Isolde had crept through the baroness’s sitting room to the still open doorway. Inside the baron’s guest bedroom, Lord Swenton stood stone faced, staring out the open window upon the night’s darkness. He did not turn his head or flinch a muscle, and Isolde had known awe to look upon a man with such self-control. While the baron remained motionless, his wife was anything but. Satiné Swenton hurled a variety of items at her husband’s back and profile. She struck out at him repeatedly and called the baron every vile name possible.

“You think you own me, but I am not a slave, Sir!” Lady Satiné struck the baron’s shoulder with the fire iron. The baron by design caught the weapon and tossed it out the open window, but he did not look upon his wife. From the light’s reflection in the upper glass, Isolde recognized the pain upon Lord Swenton’s countenance. It was not the anguish of the baroness’s attack, but rather from something much deeper.

“You are nothing to me, Johnathan Swenton! I rue the day I agreed to your proposal.”

With that pronouncement, Isolde had swept into the room to catch the baroness about the waist, purposely pining the girl’s arms to her side. “Come, Lady Swenton,” she had coaxed. “You shall know a sick headache. Surely, it is best to leave this disagreement until the light of day.” She directed the baroness’s steps toward the woman’s quarters.

Exhausted from her fit of ill use, the baroness had sagged heavily against Isolde’s side, and the woman no longer spouted contemptible vituperations. Isolde whispered soft encouragements; yet, at the door, she turned to look once more upon the baron. He remained silent, but now he stared in her direction; their eyes had met in understanding. Blood trickled down his cheek from a small cut at his temple.
A wounded animal licking his wounds
, she thought. He bowed to her retreating form, and Isolde had known regret at not being permitted to encircle him in her arms and to drive away the anguish buried deep in his soul.

*

John entered her quarters through their adjoining sitting rooms to discover his wife curled into a tight ball upon the well-stuffed mattress. After her caustic remarks last evening, he was less than certain he wished to wake her and to face his wife’s continued contempt. It would be easier on his bruised ego simply to mount his waiting horse and ride north; yet, he had promised Miss Neville he would attempt a reconciliation. Therefore, he bent beside the bed to shake her shoulder. “Satiné. Satiné. Awake, my Dear.”

His wife jerked away from his touch to scramble to her knees. She clutched at the counterpane to cover herself.
Like a bird with a broken wing
, he thought.

“I mean you no harm, Satiné,” he said huskily. “I came only to speak my farewells.”

“Farewells?” A look of heightened anticipation filled her eyes.

“Not forever.” John kept the bitterness from his tone. “I have spoken to Thornhill, and the duke has begged me to leave you in his care while I tend to Lady Fiona’s remains. Thornhill assures me your presence in Kent will provide the duchess great pleasure.”

His wife trembled. “You will permit me to remain at Thorn Hall?”

“I am not a beast, Satiné,” he said firmly. “You may remain for an extended time with the duchess, but I will return for you in a few weeks. In my absence, I mean for you to settle your mind to performing as my baroness. We are bound, and we cannot permit former acrimony to destroy what happiness we might achieve. Are you willing to permit us a fresh beginning?”

“If it is your wish, my Lord,” she repeated as if in rote learning.

John’s ire rose quickly, too fast for him to control it completely. “Bloody hell, Satiné. I do not wish you to speak of servitude, nor do I wish to encounter the shrew of last evening. Could we not find a middle?” He jammed his fingers into his hair in frustration.

She flinched again as if he had struck her, and John knew instant regret. “I shall endeavor to please you, my Lord.”

“John,” he corrected.

“Of course,” she whispered. “Thank you, John, for your kindness. It is more than I deserve.”

“Permit me to show kindness often. We began as friends. Surely, we can return to those days when we enjoyed each other’s company,” he encouraged.

“It would be superior to our recent confrontations,” she agreed.

John extended his hand to where she huddled upon the bed. “Come. Wish me a safe journey.” Satiné hesitated before placing her fingertips into his open palm; therefore, John cautiously closed his fingers about hers. “May I beg a kiss to steady me while I am away?”

With a weak nod of agreement, she moved slowly into his embrace. She was on her knees at the bed’s edge, which placed her along his front. It was the first expression of intimacy Satiné had ever accepted from him. In his dreams, this was a heart-stopping moment. John admitted he enjoyed the heat of her body as it rested against his, but she was so fragile he thought to control his passion: he could easily snap her bones with a too tight grasp. Slowly, he lowered his head to kiss her tenderly. How would it be to know this woman intimately? Not for the first time, he did not think the possibility would be satisfying.

After a few brief moments, she tentatively pulled away, and John permitted Satiné’s withdrawal. Her fingers touched the cut at the corner of his eye. He wished to turn his head and kiss her open palm, but he resisted the urge for fear his wife might realize their close proximity. “Did I…?” she began.

“Yes.” He presented her a wry grin. “With my mother’s ring. Quite ironic, is it not?”

“I should not have…” Satiné protested.

John interrupted, “No more apologies. We begin again from this moment forward.”

*

From the privacy of a half drawn-drape, Isolde had watched the baron’s departure. The tension in his shoulders had eased; yet, it had not completely dissipated, and Isolde wondered if he had resolved his marital situation. Later, when she had carried a tray to Lady Satiné’s room, the baroness had been strangely silent. Her mistress’s less than forthcoming secrecy had been quite unsettling.

Isolde looked up from the book she was pretending to read to note Thornhill’s butler enter the drawing room with a silver salver. The duchess reached for the card, read it, and then handed it to her sister. Lady Satiné smiled knowingly and shook her head in silent agreement. “Send Lord Morse in,” the duchess instructed aristocratically.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

In less than a minute, the sound of boots on the marbled floor announced Lord Morse’s entrance. From her seat along the room’s fringe, Isolde rose to acknowledge the young lord’s presence. Customarily, His Lordship did not see her; similar to a governess, a lady’s companion remained invisible in the eyes of many with titles. Generally, Isolde preferred it that way. Her employment was acceptable: and although she often assumed the duties of Lady Satiné’s maid, she did so from a desire to be useful rather than as part of her duties. However, today she would have relished the opportunity to claim a more powerful position to be close enough to Lord Morse to judge for herself the sincerity of His Lordship’s intentions.