Where Destiny Plays, page 18
“If anyone knows about one of our debutantes, it is you.”
Lavinia’s lungs clenched. A debutante for Arthur. “Lady Richmond, may I introduce my dear friend Charlotte, the Countess of Banbury. Charlotte, the Marchioness of Richmond. I believe you two met at Helena’s wedding last year.”
“Why yes, of course. Lady Banbury, a pleasure.”
“Lady Richmond, the pleasure is mine.” Charlotte nodded a bow.
“Lady Richmond, if anyone knows our debutantes, it is Charlotte. Who is the young lady in question?” Lavinia grabbed a glass of champagne from the tray of an obsequious footman.
The marchioness surveyed the ballroom then smiled with a squawk of recognition. “The pretty blonde thing over there. In the magnificent gold and olive dress with the fringe.”
Lavinia knew the girl and she most certainly was a pretty blonde thing. Her curls framed a sweet face, radiating innocence. Her figure was statuesque and stunning. But as her father was one of the few Radicals in the House of Lords, a man who vociferously supported women’s rights and Irish nationalism, most likely the girl’s pedigree was not quite what Lady Richmond had hoped for her Arthur.
“I understand that is Lady Beatrice Smythe. The middle daughter of the Earl of Ryburgh.” Lady Richmond’s tone carried a hint of victory.
“She’s just turned eighteen, my lady.” Charlotte raised her eyebrows. “Would you be considering her for your son?” She flashed Lavinia a look of pure shock.
The marchioness sighed. “Lord Petersham—Arthur is being very stubborn. He won’t look at anyone under twenty-five—”
Charlotte’s fan flew to cover her gape. Lavinia deposited her empty glass on a passing tray.
“But there are so many wonderful girls who just came out this year.” Lady Richmond turned to Lavinia. “I don’t know the girl. Can you make the introductions?”
What harm could it possibly do? At the very least Arthur would meet Beatrice’s father and learn a thing or two about politics. “I’d be delighted, Lady Richmond.”
Just as the words left her lips, the Earl of Ryburgh saw her and waved. He came over, a blushing Beatrice in tow.
Standing side-by-side before them, it was apparent from whom Beatrice had received her pleasing good looks. Ryburgh’s once-blonde hair had darkened and grayed with age but his countenance still retained its boyish appeal despite the laugh lines crinkled around his blue-gray eyes.
Ryburgh took her hands in his with genuine enthusiasm. “Lavinia, it’s been too long.” His eyes twinkled.
She smiled back. “Yes, Felix, it has.”
He glanced at Charlotte and Lady Richmond. “Lady Banbury.” He nodded.
“My lord,” Lavinia said, “may I introduce the Marchioness of Richmond. Lady Richmond, the Earl of Ryburgh.”
“My lady.” Ryburgh gave a courteous bow. “And may I introduce my daughter, Miss Beatrice Smythe.” He held his hand in presentation.
Until that moment, Beatrice had hung back shyly. She came forward and curtsied to Lady Richmond and Charlotte then smiled warmly at Lavinia.
“My, you’ve grown into a lovely young woman, Beatrice.”
“Thank you, my lady.” The color rose in her cheeks.
Lady Richmond pursed her lips. “But surely, Lord Ryburgh, your daughter should be styled Lady Beatrice Smythe?”
Beatrice stood a little straighter. “I have chosen to disregard my title and employ the common epithet, my lady.”
Ryburgh stifled a grin.
Lady Richmond offered a specious smile limned with shock. “And how is it you two know each other?” she said, turning to Lavinia.
The earl spoke first. “The women’s property bill ten years ago. Lavinia was marvelous with garnering votes in both houses.”
Lady Richmond lifted a brow. “Oh?”
“Beatrice was a darling child back then,” Lavinia added, hoping to emphasize how youthful the girl was. “I helped introduce her older sister Olivia that Season, if I recall.”
“You came to our house for tea quite often. I always looked forward to your visits, my lady.”
At her words, all eyes focused on Beatrice and she blushed again.
Lady Richmond turned to Ryburgh. “I’ve just learned recently of Lady Foxley-Graham’s interest in politics. Lord Richmond speaks highly of her accomplishments.”
“She’s positively magnificent!” Ryburgh exclaimed. “She knows absolutely everybody in Lords and how best to sway them to her causes.”
“Felix, you flatter me too much, I’m sure.”
“And what are your causes?” Lady Richmond asked her.
“I feel it is my duty to help those who have no voice, my lady. Women, the poor, the working class.”
“I dare say, we’ve given the working man the right to vote, Lady Foxley-Graham.” Ryburgh winked at her. “It is their own fault if they do not make use of that right.”
“True, my lord, but so many still remain disenfranchised. Why should lack of property or gender be impediments to democracy?”
Ryburgh discharged a sharp guffaw.
Lady Richmond stared at him and Lavinia, aghast. She recovered and turned to Beatrice. “I hope to see you at more of these events, Lady Bea—Miss Smythe.”
“Thank you, my lady. It’s my first Season out so I hope to attend as many as I can.”
“Lady Ryburgh and I are taking turns showing her off.” Ryburgh beamed at his daughter. “However I’ve discovered ballrooms are nothing like parliament. Different politics altogether.”
“I’d be delighted to step in, my lord,” offered Charlotte.
“Truly?” Ryburgh brightened. “Then why don’t you stop by tomorrow, Lady Banbury? We have absolutely loads of invitations. It would be marvelous if you could sort out the best.”
“It’s settled.” Charlotte smiled at Beatrice. “I’ll call on you tomorrow, Miss Smythe.”
Beatrice curtsied, her cheeks flushed.
“Fabulous,” Ryburgh pronounced. “Then we’re off to find Beatrice’s next dance partner. A duke I think.” He nodded at Lady Richmond and winked at Lavinia. “Until next time.”
Lavinia watched as the earl attempted to navigate the crush. His attentions had always been generous—and welcome. Had he not been utterly smitten with his wife, she would have tried to get him into bed. But it was best, sometimes, simply to be just good friends.
Given the current circumstances such a thought was dispiriting.
Chapter Fourteen
Grace found Julius sleeping in a leather club chair in his library, an old and well-worn copy of The Obstetrical Journal open on his lap. It had been a busy day again. They really needed to hire another doctor. Julius could barely keep up with his patients.
So his sherry would have to wait. In the meantime she figured she’d straighten up his study. She’d already cleaned the two examination rooms. She was tired too, but maybe it was the baby. She had been experiencing a surge of energy at the end of the day recently that made napping difficult despite the enervation. The mornings were the most difficult. She dreaded getting up from the cocoon of their warm bed.
She went down the hall to the study, closing the door behind her so any noise she made wouldn’t disturb him. He was a light sleeper, tightly drawn and ready to act, a habit developed after too many late-night doorstep emergency calls.
And he had been so secretive of whatever it was he had been doing in the study that she absolutely did not want him waking up.
She lit the oil lamp. The room was an uncharacteristic mess, the desk anyway. Papers were strewn about in a disorderly fashion, pages from letters bowled and curled from their creases. A blank page sat in the middle of the blotter, above it the inkwell sat uncapped. The pen had bled out onto the blotter in a sickly fashion, resembling a human organ rather than something pleasant like a butterfly.
The letters were not new, the stationery darkened from a color, perhaps lavender, to something more akin to spilled tea, the handwriting no longer crisp but blurred along the edges of the pen strokes. The folds were well worn, as if the missives had been read and reread over and over again.
The hand was feminine. So not correspondence from a colleague about medical concerns but from a woman—a lover? A family member?
Curiosity spiked inside. It would be wrong to peruse Julius’ private correspondence. They had known each other barely a year. He had had a life before her, as had she before him. They each had had a string of lovers, luckily from differing classes. She would hate to be in a situation as one patient had intimated to her, of a friend who had begun an affair with a man whom she did not know was her cousin’s new lover and ended up pregnant with his child.
Grace sat in the desk chair and surveyed the pages, mentally putting them in order, as she did not want to touch too much. Julius would know. He knew when something was out of place but usually it was because his space was ordered. Any deviation was noticeable. Although where chaos reigned it was uncertain if he could tell if it had been further disturbed.
A date caught her eye, at the top of the first page of many. The pages were still attached where the creases held them in place.
Exeter, 21 August 1859. Over twenty years ago.
Grace had been a child then. She barely remembered it. There had been happy memories to be sure, but most memories were of a wretched existence—her mother’s fear they would be caught stealing an apple, her father’s disgust at having to sell a man’s fine leather coin purse after he had emptied it of the few coppers and shillings encased within.
“The poor robbing the poor,” he had said.
Grace focused on the page before her. “In for a penny, in for a pound” was another aphorism voiced by her parents.
She continued reading.
My darling,
Julius, it seemed, was carrying on a love affair at that time. How strange to realize one’s lover had been an adult when one was just a child. How humbling to realize she might be just the latest of his affairs. Would he one day be rereading her letters to him?
Would she feel compelled to write letters to him?
A woman only did such a thing if she was tortured by love and unable to see her lover, or remorseful and wanted to apologize, or felt wronged and needed an answer. Had Julius been wronged? Or was he the villain?
Grace read further.
I’ve recovered. I mean to say my body has recovered. My heart is still in tatters, bleeding for you. Richard was so worried for me, insisting he call a doctor. I finally convinced him sometimes women just have these spells…that their courses take a bad turn…and I lied that I had experienced it before. My lady’s maid was shocked and horrified by the amount of blood, for there was an absolute deluge.
Still it did not compare to the deluge of grief I still harbor for the loss of your child.
Grace’s heart clenched. Twenty-one years ago, Julius was going to be a father. He had never mentioned it. Why should he really?
I fear you are wrong when you claim my husband would have known the child was not his. In the delight of fatherhood, Richard would not have noticed. And if gossips had commented on the black hair of the son of a ginger-haired man, he would have laughed it off ingenuously. For who really understands these sorts of things but doctors and men of science?
So Julius’ paramour had been married. Grace herself had never inquired about the marital status of the blokes she lay with. If a handsome lad was willing, it was often hard to resist, especially if he was willing to pay.
But to have given me a “tonic” without my knowledge is absolutely unconscionable. I know you’ve never wanted the “inconvenience” of a child, but I have been longing to provide my husband with the one thing I was supposed to give him. You would have had no responsibility whatsoever. I have heard endlessly how my predecessor failed to provide a son and now I share in that failure. It kills me to know I may never be fruitful and to know the innocent we created has been slaughtered by your ambition.
And now I no longer have you either, Julius. You could have at least left me with your child, a memento of our love.
The words stung like pin pricks to her flesh. I know you’ve never wanted the “inconvenience” of a child. Grace had not thought to even ask Julius. She just thought whatever happened, happened. She would take care of the child, even if Julius put her out on the street. She too only wanted a memento of their union.
But he didn’t want a child even if he did not have to take care of it. His lover had been married, had been willing to raise the child with another man’s name, and still he did not want it.
He had given her a tonic. Grace knew exactly what that was. Julius had provided it to Mrs. Chadbourne.
Well if Julius did not want the child, then she knew what had to be done.
Curiosity compelled her one last time. She leafed through the pages until she reached the signature at the end. A flush of surprise washed over her. She knew of the liaison yet she had no idea of the depths of the connection.
She did know one thing: the Viscountess Foxley-Graham never did have any children.
Chapter Fifteen
William stood on Lady Foxley-Graham’s front porch and rang the doorbell. Like all the other days he had stood in the very same position he hoped maybe this would be the day.
He sighed.
Propelled by his desire to learn lessons of love he had enthusiastically dived into his language studies with alacrity. He would not give anyone any reason to believe Lady Foxley-Graham was doing anything for him other than lending books. He impressed Mama with the Persian conjugation of the verb “to see”. He had thought to demonstrate with “to love” but then it would have been all so painfully obvious.
Well, probably not, but he didn’t want to take that chance.
He had already been to the lady’s house several times but nothing had happened—well, nothing like he had wanted to happen had happened. They would have tea, talk about his life, about her life, then he would go to her library and pick out a book or two. Although it all proved far more interesting than he thought it would be. Not only was there an astonishing array of written material on any subject one could possibly think of, after he had spent time with the lady he invariably was incredibly hard. Choosing a book became an erotic act, an act whose completion could only be effected alone in his bed at night.
Then one afternoon, while he had been paging through what he determined was a volume of Ottoman poetry, the conversation took a decidedly different turn.
“William,” she had said from the window seat as she watched him, “I presume you pleasure yourself.”
He stood stock still for a moment, trying to anchor his suddenly foggy brain before he turned to her. “My lady?”
“Oh, I’ve shocked you. I do apologize but we must discuss it some time. Now I assure you all men pleasure themselves, even though you’ll all swear to your pastors that you do not. I want to know a little more about how it is you go about doing it.”
He stared at her with wide eyes. “With my hand, my lady?”
She laughed, a sound so sweet it softened the tension in his muscles.
“How very droll, Mr. Peel. I meant the sensual thoughts you might have while you are touching yourself.”
He inhaled and tried to dismiss the flush of shame stinging up his neck. “Lately, my lady, I’ve been thinking of you.”
She smiled and a bit of color rose in her cheeks. “I am flattered, William.” She looked down at her fingers, perhaps in an act of collecting herself. “I have the first lesson for you in our study of the ways of love. Next time you are pleasuring yourself—”
Most likely it would be the very moment he got home—
“I would like you to pay attention to what it is you find most arousing. If you indeed think of me, what specifically are you imagining?”
“I think, my lady, it’s really never very specific. It’s more just the idea of you.”
She colored again. “Well try to be more aware. Perhaps there is an aspect of me you prefer the best.”
“Yes, my lady.” Everything, from her hair to her legs—if he ever got a chance to see them.
“It is very important for you to understand your sensual predilections. Once you understand yours, you can help your lover understand hers.”
And thus ended their afternoon a couple of days previous. He frigged himself probably too much during the intervening time but had some success in discovering what it was about the lady he preferred. Her lips, of course, and her bosom. He so wanted to mold his hand to a breast, to smooth his palm over its luscious curves, to squeeze. To hear her response to his touch. Just thinking of such a thing made him hard.
And, unfortunately, he was still standing at her front door. He shifted his weight, hoping his cock would shift to a less obvious position in his drawers. It did not.
The surprise of Mr. Sims answering the door and ushering him in dissipated his ardor somewhat. Still the butler surely noticed. The old man must have known all of Lady Foxley-Graham’s “students”. A flush of abashment crept along his scalp. What must the butler think of him?
“The viscountess wishes for you to meet her in the library, Mr. Peel.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sims.”
He marched up the stairs, his nerves slowing his pace. It would be rude to keep the lady waiting though, even if they were only to talk about his masturbatory habits. He stepped more lively.
She sat in the window seat, a vision of loveliness, gazing down on her garden below.
“My lady.”
She turned. “William. Come here.” She patted the empty space next to her.
He sat. And then she put her hand on his thigh.
Every nerve in his body fired at the touch. His prick forgot its earlier abashed state.
But she didn’t just merely touch him: she stroked him. Her fingers traced along the inner seam of his trousers slowly, her warmth seeping into his skin. If it were possible, his prick hardened even more.
Her gaze flicked to his crotch. “I see my touch excites you.”
He flushed. “Very much so,” he croaked.
