Lady Elizabeth Darnley cut a determined swathe through the unbearable crush toward her quarry. Watching Lord Markham’s dignified elegance through narrowed eyes, she thought he held the grace and the raw power of a jungle cat as he graciously greeted members of his family, friends, and acquaintances. Growing increasingly warmer, she felt the familiar sensation of carnal awakening at the sight of the perfect specimen of masculinity that was her lover. With one amorous glance, one gentle kiss, one tender caress, he alone had the power to melt her into a puddle of need. And she did not have any intention of allowing him out of her bed.
Despite his assurances at their last assignation that his marriage would not interfere with their arrangement, as it was one of only convenience, she still felt the niggling fear that he would choose to honour his vows. While other gentlemen had no qualms about choosing to keep a mistress in addition to his wife, Lord Markham on the other hand had a rather warped sense of honour, and that same sense of honour had thwarted her plans for the young viscount in the past.
Born to a modest country squire, she had believed from the first that she was destined for greater things. The only child, she had grown up spoilt, wilful, and self-centred, having her every whim catered to by her doting parents. Learning early on that her beauty was a formidable weapon, she handled it with the panache of a master swordsman, often using it to deflect blame onto others for her own misbehaviour and counter any opposition to her will.
Then, she had arrived in London, expecting the whole of the ton to fall at her feet, declaring her the Season’s Incomparable. People had told her how beautiful she was for most of her life after all. Expecting Dukes and Marquesses to clamour for her hand, she was furious when all she could attract was the attentions of a mere Baron. Her conceit did not allow her to think that Dukes and Marquesses could look higher than the daughter of a country squire, not matter how beautiful she was. Having no other choice, as her parents only had enough money for one Season, she had to accept the aging Lord Darnley, and when he could not satisfy her in bed, she discreetly took lovers to feed her voracious sexual appetite. It was not until a year after her marriage to Lord Darnley that she met Lord Markham.
Convinced of the power she wielded, she had mistakenly believed that her marriage would not prove to be an insurmountable obstacle in her desire to lure Lord Markham into her bed. His passionate virility had drawn her from their first introduction and she had immediately recognised the gleam of interest that shone back at her from the emerald green depths of his eyes. However, he had cited his honour as the reason for refusing to succumb to temptation, as he could never bring himself to seduce another man’s wife. Seduction had naught to do with it; she was ready and willing. At the time, his reluctance seemed at odds with his rakish reputation. Of course, she had heard the rumours. If she believed half of them, he would bed any female that looked twice at him, and he had not bothered to repudiate the claims. So why was he so unwilling?
Anger had turned to hope and then reverted back to anger when the old fool Darnley had died. Convinced Peter would at last grace her bed, she had almost thrown a priceless vase at his head when he once again refused, believing she should not tarnish her dearly departed husband’s memory by lying with another man until her year of mourning had concluded. Damn Society and their rules, she had fumed. Why should she have to wear dreary black and remain confined to her house for at least half a year to mourn a man she did not even like, let alone love? Even then she could only wear grey or lavender and leave the house to attend sober entertainments and not the usual frivolous ones she so enjoyed. The only reasons she had married him was for his title, his wealth, and his age. A gentleman of his indifferent health could not hope to live beyond a few years, and then Beth would become very wealthy in her own right with all of the freedoms afforded to a widow. Freedom he had denied her as his wife, and certainly more freedom than she had when she lived with her parents.
Then, the following Season her long-awaited wish came true. Beyond her wildest dreams, Peter had transported her into the realms of ecstasy, igniting a raging fire and intense need that even she did not realise she possessed. Over time, he had become a drug that she needed in constant supply. He was her snuff, her opium that was so addictive; her withdrawals would become painful physical manifestations if too much time elapsed between doses. She would not, she could not, let him go.
Smoothing her low-cut royal blue morning gown over her rounded hip as she walked, she briefly wondered at the doubtful wisdom of attending her lovers wedding. Obsession and curiosity, she knew, had drawn her out of her bed at such an ungodly hour, at a time when she was still usually preparing herself for the day. Beauty such as she possessed did not just happen naturally, especially now that she was aging at a rapid rate. Her skin was not as taut as it once was; her breasts had begun to head south, and her thighs and buttocks looked remarkably like orange peel. She had to work constantly at her looks to compete with the inevitable diamond of the first water that usually emerged at the beginning of each Season. She held a growing fear that one just might catch the viscount’s eye, but now, because of a turn of the cards, a little country mouse had caught him instead.
Jealousy had reigned while she witnessed Lord Markham exchanging vows with the little upstart, Miss Fulham. Beth was the one who should have been standing next to Peter, with her hands clasped in his, vowing to love, honour, and obey him until death did them part. It was her right; she had earned it. She was the one who loved him with all of her heart. Or at least as much heart as someone as selfish as she was could possibly muster.
Her first proper glimpse of the new Lady Markham startled her somewhat. She appeared older than she had thought. Perhaps four-and-twenty or five-and-twenty, certainly not in the first blush of youth, her plain brown hair and blue eyes were quite common in their appearance, and her ivory gown, whilst obviously made by an expert seamstress, she grudgingly conceded, did not even begin to compare with her own modish attire. Overall, Beth considered her quite plain and dowdy and not at all like the Incomparable that she feared.
Perhaps it would not be such a difficult matter for her to retain his loyalty after all, she thought. She may have lost her chance of wearing his ring, but with the proper incentive, she could persuade him to remain in her bed. Her overweening vanity refused to allow her to believe bedding an inexperienced wife favourably compared to making love to his mistress. However, there was still the trifling matter of his wretched code of honour to consider.
Sidling up to him where he stood half hidden behind a pillar, she placed a gentle hand on the sleeve of his coat. “Peter,” she said in a sultry voice.
Lord Markham swung around at the sound of her voice, his eyes greedily drinking in the seductive pose Lady Darnley had employed just for him. Unprepared for her appearance, he could not contain his own body’s reaction to her. His eyes darkened with desire and his groin tightened painfully within the confines of his tight, black pantaloons. “Lady Darnley,” he said, his voice wavering slightly. It would not do to lust after ones mistress at ones wedding breakfast. “You are in fine looks this morning.”
“Thank you, my love,” she purred, stepping closer to him so that no one else would overhear her words. She offered her hand, and he could not resist raising it his lips.
The movement presented an unobstructed view down her low-cut gown. He bit back a groan as the image of her naked, writhing body during their last encounter assailed him. What was it about the woman that merely being in her presence made the blood rush from his head and pool in a completely unrelated part of his anatomy?
Beth smiled. “This colour does become me, as you have so often pointed out. I rarely wear any other, particularly those hues generally worn by debutantes. I suppose there is one good thing to come out of becoming a matron; one can avoid wearing white and those insipid pastel shades. They can wash out the wearer, do you not agree?”
“Those colours do seem to suit some of the debutantes making their bows,” he said, nodding briefly at a dark-haired girl standing not too far away, elegantly gowned in ivory muslin not too dissimilar to Sophie’s silk.
“Of course, she has both the colouring and the youth to carry off such a pale hue. It’s just a pity that....” She allowed her voice to trail off, as though she was unsure of how to continue, and stared guilelessly up at him.
Peter frowned, his eyes blazing so brightly they almost burnt into her soul. “It’s just a pity that – what?” he asked.
Beth lowered her eyes, pausing for a few moments with the right amount of uncertainty. “I do hesitate to bring this up, you understand. However, I cannot but wonder whether your wife shall embarrass you at every turn. And to have to claim kinship with the Fulham family does not even bear contemplation.” She gave a delicate shudder.
Pensively, Peter considered her words. She had not said anything that he had not already thought himself. However, what truly worried him was that if Beth could see her lack of social awareness, then surely the rest of Society would as well. As for the Fulham’s, once Sir George returned the gambling vowels and mortgages he had won, then Peter and his family would have nothing more to do with them.
“I agree, she shall have to be taken in hand,” Peter said.
“Certainly, but it is your poor mother that I worry about. To have Lady Emily’s come-out to arrange, as well as the added burden of teaching such a green girl on how to go about in Society. It all shall begin to take a terrible toll on her sensibilities, I should not wonder. I shall help her if you wish it?”
Peter grinned. “I should not think that is such a good idea, my dear,” he said. “One's mistress does not offer to teach one's wife how to negotiate the peculiar ways of the ton.”
Beth blushed in apparent confusion. “Of course, how silly of me,” she said with a light laugh. It was not in her plans to alienate the viscount completely, but she was content she had sewn the first seed of doubt in his mind. So she abruptly changed the subject. “Are you perchance attending the Rathbone’s ball this evening?”
“I believe I am escorting Mother and Emily,” he said. “The Rathbones are quite close acquaintances of Mother’s so she would not like to cry off at the last minute.”
Pressing closer to his side, she rejoiced at the intelligence that his wife would probably not attend. That should provide extra opportunity to drive a wedge between them, she thought smugly. In all probability, Lady Markham would not receive invitations for quite some time, at least until they had honoured all of their existing engagements. “Wonderful,” she breathed. “I shall save a dance for you, my love. And then afterwards, perhaps talk?” She allowed her unspoken desire to see him in her boudoir afterwards hang in the air between them. Turning, she seductively strolled away, knowing instinctively that she would hold his undivided attention until she disappeared from view.
Peter watched his mistress melt into the crush of bodies. Willing his rapid breathing to slow, he knew that he would he would have to delay returning to the festivities in order to regain control over his body. Rubbing his temples, he began to wonder what Lady Darnley’s possible motive could be to seek him out at his own wedding. He could feel the dull thud of a rather painful and insistent headache emerging.
“Markham, there you are. I have been looking for you for an age,” Lord Rutherford said as he strode purposefully toward him. His countenance resembled a thundercloud. “Not at all the thing, my friend, inviting your mistress to your wedding. What were you thinking of?”
Peter scowled irritably. The censure he heard in Lord Rutherford’s voice was enough to douse his ardour, as though he had just thrown a bucket of iced water over his head. “I didn’t. Nor did I invite the other four hundred and ninety people that have just shown up,” he replied crossly. “Do you think me so lost to propriety; I would condone the appearance of Lady Darnley when she could quite easily cross paths with my wife. I thought you knew me better than that.”
“I beg your pardon, of course not,” Rutherford replied softly. “However, I am not the only one who noticed. People are beginning to question the validity of our tale. You know the one, where you are supposedly besotted with your wife.”
Peter blanched, groaning audibly even over the din of incessant chatter surrounding him. Before he could reply, Lord Hartleigh approached, wearing a scowl that would rival Lord Rutherford’s fierce expression. Peter raised his hand to forestall what he knew Lord Hartleigh was about to say.
“Pray, do not ring a peal over my head as well, Hart,” Peter grumbled. “I should not have spoken to Lady Darnley. But what else was I supposed to do, she is accepted everywhere. I could not cut her.”
“Yes, accepted everywhere, her rather scandalous reputation notwithstanding,” Lord Hartleigh scoffed. “It appears Lord Darnley’s credit continues protecting her, despite the poor man being dead for these last three years. There is only one reason she is here and it is not to wish you happiness in your marriage. She wants to show everyone that she still has you firmly planted in her pocket.”
Peter emphatically shook his head, and said, “No! She seemed quite concerned with my own family’s reputation, as well as my mother’s sensibilities.”
“Think, Markham!” Lord Rutherford urged. He had to make his friend see that Lady Darnley was not the paragon he thought she was. Peter lacked the ability of rational thought whenever she was around. “Lady Darnley is a selfish, wilful, and spoilt beauty who is used to having nothing denied her. She cares not one whit for your family or your mother’s sensibilities. Everyone here knows of your relationship with her. Why do you think she sought you out in the most public place imaginable?”
“I see,” Peter said thoughtfully. And he did see, quite clearly in fact.
He began to recount the conversation with Lady Darnley from a completely different perspective. This time, he had both of his eyes open. He now saw that her reference to the colour of debutantes’ gowns was a clear disparagement of both his wife’s age and her appearance, without actually mentioning her by name. Even though, Lady Darnley herself was much older than Sophie. Her apparent hesitation in pointing out Sophie’s deficiencies was a deliberate ploy to do exactly that, to point out her deficiencies. Designed, quite cleverly, to place doubt into his mind about Sophie’s suitability as Lady Markham, and to ensure he returned to Lady Darnley’s bed. And her insinuation regarding the Rathbone’s ball this evening obviously mentioned to inform him that she would welcome him, even on his wedding night. Clearly motivated by jealousy, he decided.
Then, he began to wonder whether he actually wished to continue with their affair. While she still had the capacity to arouse him beyond all coherent thought; Lady Darnley’s possessiveness of him had become more than a slight problem. Even before his betrothal announcement had appeared in The Gazette. He had just never notice it before. Memories of her showing up at nearly every function he attended, her proprietary air whenever another lady approached him, especially a diamond, and even her highly suspicious carriage accident just beyond the gates of his estate galloped through his mind with the speed of a cavalry charge. He frowned. Could her jealousy be prompted by her unfulfilled desire to have wed him herself?
He immediately dismissed the notion. She knew well that a gentleman never married his mistress, being within Society for as long as she had. Still, the niggling thought lingered in the back of his mind, eating away at him until he was forced to address it. Perhaps she thought that being of the same class might have eliminated that possibility. It was true that widows did remarry, and there were quite a few that married their lovers, but Peter doubted that he could bring himself to do so. She had been his regular mistress for nigh on two years, so if it had not happened by now then it probably never would.
As levelheaded as he was, he realised he did not love her. All she did for him was satisfy a base craving that had existed since time immemorial. He had needs just as every other gentleman did and those needs demanded to be fulfilled. Although, not quite to the extent that his reputation stated.
Peter sighed gustily. “I shall have to give her the congé,” he said with a wan smile.
“Well, I should not go that far, Markham,” Lord Hartleigh said with a chuckle. “Just try to be a trifle more discreet with your assignations.”
“I shall have to though. Who’s to say that she won’t take it in her head to approach Sophie?” Peter insisted. Surprised that his wife’s name slipped so easily from his tongue, he blushed and added, “I believe it has already been established that Lady Darnley is accepted everywhere. They might come into contact at any number of entertainments.”
Lord Rutherford raised his eyebrows, wondering what could have possibly caused such a reaction from his usually composed friend. It would bear watching, he thought. “They may do that anyway,” he said gently. “At least if Lady Darnley remains as your mistress, you might keep her turned up sweet so she shall not do anything scandalous. A woman scorned and all of that.”
Peter smiled. “That is a surprising comment coming from you, my friend,” he said. “You gave your mistress the congé when you married.”
“Ah, but there are several glaringly obvious differences between your situation and mine,” Lord Rutherford said. He lowered his voice. “One, I love my wife as you well know. Two, my mistress was a Courtesan and not of the same class as I. And three, she was not obsessed with me as Lady Darnley is clearly with you. Even if she was, it would make it harder for her to cause trouble as we do not exist in the same circles.”
“I shall have to think on it,” he conceded.
Lord Hartleigh nodded in agreement. “Good. Now the original reason I came looking for you is that your father asked me to find you. Apparently, he has just heard from your solicitor and he wishes to discuss it with you.”
“Ah, yes, Mr Wentworth. He went in search of some information on the Fulham family. He must have found something,” Peter said with great satisfaction. Although it was too late to help him now, the information might prove useful in other ways. “This whole situation seems havey-cavey to me.”
“Oh, you mean besides the fact that your wife had apparently disappeared fifteen years ago,” Lord Rutherford asked wryly.
“Yes, among other things,” he said cryptically. He did not wish to divulge his suspicions just yet as he thought he might be wrong. Hopefully, he was not, but one can never be too sure.
Thinking his father’s summons was quite urgent; he took his leave of his friends and went in search for him. However, before he could find him, he caught sight of his wife leaving an antechamber on the arm of Lady Rutherford. Looking pale and drawn, it appeared as though Sophie was being held up rather than walking on her own. A momentary twinge of compassion assailed him. For one not used to mingling with Society, as he knew Sophie was not, it must be quite difficult to suddenly find oneself thrown into the lion’s den. Deciding it must be time to depart, he changed course and cautiously approached. His father could wait for a few a moments, he decided.
“Are you alright, my dear,” he asked with a warm smile. He nodded a greeting to Lady Rutherford, who smiled in return.
Knowing his term of endearment was for the benefit of interested bystanders, she ignored it. Instead, she said softly, “Oh, yes, I fear the heat must have affected me. I am not used to it, you see.” She had no wish to lie to her husband, but she could not tell him the real reason for her wan appearance. The ramifications of her conversation with her uncle, however, she would contemplate in the privacy of her own chambers. Then, she would decide what she should do.
Peter nodded in agreement, exactly as he had thought. “If you would please excuse us, Lady Rutherford, I believe it is time we take our leave.” For the benefit of Lady Rutherford’s hearing only, he bent his head and whispered, “Thank you, my dear, for looking out for her.”
Lady Rutherford stared at him through speculative eyes. “It was my pleasure,” she replied.
“Come along, my lady, first we shall find my father,” he said to Sophie, leading her off into the now thinning crowd.
Sophie nodded, tightening her hold on his arm as though she would drown if they lost contact. Her fear steadily grew until it became an almost unbearable pressure on her sensibilities the closer they came to join with Lord and Lady Ashington. She had not formally met them as yet and was unsure of what to expect.
“Ah, there you are, Peter,” Lord Ashington said heartily when he caught sight of them approaching. “I must speak with you as soon as we arrive home.”
After acknowledging his father’s request, Peter performed the introductions with a suave confidence that Sophie envied. Lord Ashington greeted her warmly as did his sister, Lady Emily, who Sophie thought was a lovely girl, if a trifle exuberant, but she was struck dumb with the animosity she saw radiating from the cool depths of Lady Ashington’s piercing blue gaze.
However, her husband allowed her no time to dwell on the cause, for she was whisked out of the door with such speed her head began to swim. That would be another thing she would have think about in the privacy of her own chambers, she thought wryly as she was assisted into the carriage to begin her new life as Lady Markham. Fortunately, she had not caught sight of her uncle, her aunt, or her cousin before she left and for that, she was grateful.