Authors: Wedded Bliss
Sir George’s face turned purple and his beady eyes narrowed. “What, a baronet is not good enough for your kin now that you’re a countess?” He got to his feet, looming over Alissa’s chair, spittle dampening her cheeks. “You might have the title, missy, but you are nothing but a whore, selling your favors to the highest bidder. Only the winning bid didn’t want to keep you, it looks like. So you are nothing. And nothing stands in my way, do you hear?”
He took a step closer, then grabbed for Alissa’s shoulders before she could stand up. He shook her, snapping her head against the chair frame. Alissa knew Claymore could not move fast enough to come to her aid, but she screamed anyway. Meanwhile her hands scrabbled at the table in front of her, seeking the knife, but came up with the sugar tongs instead. She raked them down his cheek, leaving bloody gashes. He cursed and slapped her, then pressed his hand to his face and headed for the door. He knocked poor Claymore down on the way, then turned and said, “This is not over. Not by half.”
*
Alissa and Claymore shared a brandy. He was devastated that he’d allowed such a thing to happen to his mistress. She was distraught. Great heavens, what was she going to do now? She knew she had made an enemy for life, a brutal, unscrupulous enemy at that, who was sure to seek revenge. She would never be safe. Her sister would never be safe, or the boys. She thought of Amy, so used to walking to the village on her own. The boys were always out and about, especially Hugo. She could not keep them at her side constantly, or under guard. She could not make Rock Hill the fortress it once was, no matter how many men she hired.
She would never have a moment’s peace, wondering if Sir George was waiting outside the gates, in the gardens, at a neighbor’s house when they went to visit. The man was disordered, not merely disgusting. What was she going to do? How could she protect her family?
And then Alissa remembered. She was not a weak woman, cottage-bound and at the baronet’s mercy. She was a countess. She had power.
She had…a husband.
Chapter Fifteen
What good was having a husband if he was not there to protect you? Alissa had married Rockford, in part, to be safe from Sir George. Well, she was not safe, and Rockford’s money had placed Aminta in danger now too. It was his duty, his obligation to defend them against insult and harm. Heaven knew he did little enough else, other than paying the bills, which his new secretary handled anyway.
“We are going to London,” she announced to her sons a few days later when she found them in the stable block. Rockford was not going to come to her. Therefore she would go to him.
She did not want to frighten the boys with her fears of Sir George, other than what they had seen, but she was not about to let them ramble unguarded either. Extra footmen and armed grooms accompanied them to lessons and on rides, to their disgust. She was happy when it rained today and they were kept inside—with the dratted dogs. Now they refused to leave Rock Hill and their new pets to travel to the city, despite promises of the Royal Menagerie, the Circus, Hyde Park, the maze at Richmond, and frozen ices at Gunters. No puppies, no ponies, no miles of countryside? No, they would not go.
Not even to see their father? Only Hugo hesitated, tempted by London’s museums and galleries, Alissa realized, not the chance to visit with Rockford.
Billy said, “Papa ought to come here, where we live.”
Alissa might have agreed, but Rockford was not coming, and they could not stay without his protection. Of course, the children would go if she ordered it, she knew. They would have no choice, being children. But those looks. Willy had tears in his eyes; Kendall was sadly resigned. They had had so little in their lives; now she would take away this pleasure. Hugo peered at her through his glasses, as if trying to figure out the workings of the universe, or why his adored stepmother was suddenly acting so cruelly. He had never had a real pet of his own, his grandparents having decided that anything with fur or feathers was too dangerous for the sickly boy. Now he rubbed his hand over a small velvety head over and over.
Billy, though, clutched his pup to his chest and declared, “I will not go and I will run away if you make me. And I will puke the whole carriage ride anyway. So there.”
So the puppies were coming to London. They were small, Alissa had to admit, and cute in a purely babyish way. They looked harmless enough, with tiny teeth and clumsy gaits. Half hound and half some terrier or other, they were brown and white and gold, with a few black patches. Two had mustaches, one had long silky ears, one had a short tail. Otherwise, Alissa could not tell them apart, although the children knew instantly which dog was which, and whose.
They had named them for playing cards, for which Alissa glared at Jake, teaching her boys to gamble. Hugo, being the eldest, had picked first. His dog was Ace. Kendall’s was King.
“But not King George; otherwise he’d be named for a Bedlamite,” Kendall confided. “Or Sir George Ganyon. He might have given us the dogs, but I don’t want mine having his name. He’s just King.”
Willy had chosen the only female, Queenie. And Billy had Jack, the knave, the pup who kept escaping from the box and wetting the floor. It figured.
Not even Alissa could have drowned the little animals, not the way they slept in the boys’ laps or followed at their feet or tried to suckle at their fingers. They were only babies, these would-be hounds from hell. She would not touch them, ride in the carriage with them, or permit them inside the inns where the family would stay. She would not feed them or exercise them or learn which name was which, but the dogs could come.
The ponies would come too, so Billy could ride partway, rather than be confined to the carriage. Alissa drew the line at the pig or the donkey, though. Now Jake had to come along to be in charge of the menagerie, and Claymore would too, of course. Alissa could not face the city or her husband without the old butler’s support. Extra grooms, the boys’ valet, a maid for her and her sister…
Aminta did not wish to go to London either. It was too big, too noisy, too crowded, she had heard from the vicar’s niece. And she did not know anyone.
“You will make new friends,” Alissa urged, “and have new gowns from the finest dressmakers. You’ll have parties to go to every night, and different entertainments every day.”
“No one in London is going to invite a plain Miss Bourke to their balls, Lissie. I do not belong there.”
“No one is going to reject the Earl of Rockford’s ward, believe me. Perhaps we will not be invited to Almack’s, but I hear that is no great loss.”
“But I like the country, Lissie.”
“Nonsense, you do not know anything else,” Alissa said from her superior experience, having gone once to London, after her marriage to William Henning. They had visited his father’s mansion to ask the duke’s blessing. Alissa had been terrified, with good cause. From the cold, bare antechamber where they’d told her to wait, she could hear the angry shouts. They had left without the blessing, and without seeing the sights William had promised. “You have to give London a try, Amy. Then you can decide if you like it or not. Besides, I need you to come with me. I am frightened of going, too.” But not as afraid as she was of staying.
Alissa had done so much for her sister; how could Amy refuse? She nodded, and drove off to the vicarage in the donkey cart—with an armed groom sitting in the wagon bed—to consult her friend about clothes and manners.
Lady Eleanor was harder to convince, once Alissa had tracked her sister-in-law down in the kitchens. Eleanor had heard about Sir George’s visit, and was ready to go at him with her horsewhip.
“But he would still be here,” Alissa said, taking a seat and pouring herself a glass of cider from the stoneware jug. “Madder than ever. Besides, I believe he will already carry scars from the sugar tongs.”
“I still cannot believe you fought the scum off with a serving utensil. Not that he did not deserve that and more, but I still say good show, Countess. My brother would be proud. And you are right to go to him. But not with me. I would only ruin your welcome from him, for one thing, and with the
ton,
for another.”
Alissa could not speak for her husband. She doubted her own welcome, much less Lady Eleanor’s. She did say, “Fustian. You are a heroine in the neighborhood. The beau monde will greet you with applause.”
“Laughter, more like. I had several Seasons in town, ages ago, it seems. I was even engaged once, did you know?”
“I heard something about that. It ended abruptly, I understand.”
“Oh, yes, you might call it abrupt. The engagement ended right at the church doors. My fiancé did not arrive for the wedding.”
“But why? Do you know?”
“Because I found my betrothed on the balcony with another woman the week before the wedding. Ours was one of those advantageous matches that united lands and wealth and titles. We knew each other forever, so I thought we would rub along well together. I had no wish to marry a philanderer, though, so I told him what I would do if I found him unfaithful after the wedding. He decided my dowry was not worth the family jewels.”
“The family…? Oh, I see. What did you do then?”
“I came home, rather than become the laughingstock of London. I have been here ever since, except for the recent—”
“Visit to your aunt in Wales,” Alissa said for the benefit of the scullery maid who had entered the kitchen.
Lady Eleanor laughed. “Jaunt. And here I intend to stay. If people choose to believe your Banbury tale, they will still remember the last scandal, that I was jilted. That will hurt your chances of being accepted, and your sister’s chances.”
“I refuse to believe that. You are an adult woman now, not the same young girl left at the altar, and you are the sister to an influential man. Hiding here only magnifies your shame, and gives the gossips more room for speculation. Besides, I need you to help with my sister’s presentation. You know the ways of the
ton,
having lived among them, and can be a great asset. You must come, and hold your head high.”
“And deflect some of Rockford’s anger that you are bringing the children to London without his permission?”
Alissa grinned at her sister-in-law’s knowing look and raised her glass of cider in a toast. “Precisely.”
*
Rockford came home that morning with a headache and a mouth that felt like low tide. Her royal princess was getting to be a royal pain in his arse. With no hopes of getting his wedding ring on her fat finger, Princess Helga had grown more demanding, less conciliatory. He doubted England would ever get a treaty with her wealthy brother, but he was her designated escort, so he had to keep trying. Now he was trying to find his bed before he fell on his face.
For a moment he thought he had come to the wrong house, one under attack by howling Hottentots. The black and white marble tiles in the entryway looked familiar, but that was all. The hall was littered with running children and barking dogs and shouting women and baggage. Baggage, hell! The prince regent took less luggage when he moved the court to Brighton. Footmen in livery Rockford did not recognize were carrying in more trunks, dodging dogs whose breed he did not recognize either. A puddle spread from one corner and an odor came from another, whose source he refused to contemplate. One of the dogs was chewing on a flower from the vase on the floor. The priceless Etruscan vase had not been on the floor when he saw it last, Rockford would have sworn, nor did it have that piece missing from its handle.
His aching head exploded with pain from the noise and motion and general chaos. He closed his eyes briefly, hoping the scene would change when he reopened them. It did. Now two creatures were jumping on his leg. One was yet another mongrel puppy, trying to chew the tassel off his boots. The other was his younger son William, trying to get his attention.
Hell.
“Quiet!” he bellowed into the bedlam that was his erstwhile elegant abode. The shout reverberated in his brain like a billiard ball wearing spurs, but it was effective. Everyone turned to look at him, even the dogs. “Where is Bancroft?” he asked the room at large, seeking his butler.
“He gave in his resignation an hour ago,” Claymore answered from the floor, where he was on his hands and knees, trying to find his spectacles. One of the pups had his wig in its mouth and was shredding it all over the Turkey runner in the hall. “But I am here, my lord.”
Oh, and that was supposed to reassure the earl? He was supposed to host a formal dinner for the Austrian delegation that very evening, with no butler. He yelled for Upton, his new secretary. When that man stepped forward, blotting at his forehead with a handkerchief, Rockford asked, “Did you know about this?” He waved his hand around, but there was no doubt what he meant by
this.
“Um, only yesterday, my lord.”
“And you did not tell me?”
“You did not come home last night, my lord, and you told me never to bother you when you were with—”
“Out! Get out!”
Aminta grabbed for Willy’s hand and made a dash for the door, but Rockford thundered, “Not you. Upton.” He made a quick survey of the hall. The footmen had disappeared as fast as the now former secretary. “The rest of you wait here. That includes you, Claymore. No one is staying, so you do not need to see about the unpacking. All of you will remain in this hall while I have a short”—he emphasized
short—
“talk with Lady Rockford.” His eyes fixed on her like lightning
headed for a
tree. “In the library. Meanwhile, the rest of you will not touch anything. You will not go into any of the other rooms. You will control those animals, and you will clean up this mess. You will not leave the house, you will not scream like banshees, and you will not climb the banister. Get down, William. You will not read the mail on the post tray, you will not stare out the windows at the neighbors, and you will not feed those creatures from the comfit dish, Will. You will not touch the paintings and you will not—”