Margaret Moore (13 page)

There was something vaguely familiar about the man, yet Richard couldn’t place him. Perhaps he had been a childhood acquaintance.

The stranger’s identity became rather less important than his relationship with Elissa as he all but ran toward Richard’s wife like a long-lost lover and took her hands in his. “What a pleasant surprise! How did you come to be here so soon? Where is Will?”

Elissa smiled pleasantly. “I didn’t expect to see you here either, Mr. Sedgemore. We have just arrived and Will has gone inside already.”

Richard sauntered closer. He did not recognize the fellow’s name, but he recognized
the greedy, anxious yearning in the man’s manner.

“Was that
your
coach?” the decidedly too familiar Mr. Sedgemore cried. “I knew your estate was prospering, but I had no idea you were doing so well. However, I know you shall not put on London airs,” he finished softly.

“The coach and four were a gift from the king,” Richard announced.

Their heads swiveled toward him.

“A wedding gift.”

“A what?” Sedgemore gasped, looking from Elissa to Richard with undisguised shock.

And something else. Was that despair or only surprise in the fellow’s brown eyes?

In truth, and despite his momentary jealousy of Heartless Harding, it had not yet occurred to Richard that his wife might have been courted by another man at home. It should have, though. She was, after all, a young, beautiful, vivacious woman.

But he would not reveal the weakness of jealousy. “Yes, we are married, and I will thank you to let go of Lady Dovercourt’s hands.”

Fortunately for Sedgemore, he did as Richard commanded.

“Lady Dovercourt?” he repeated stupidly, again looking uneasily from one to the other.

“As her husband is the Earl of Dovercourt, that should not be surprising.”

“It is quite true,” Elissa replied, and Richard couldn’t tell if that confirmation held sorrow or not. “Lord Dovercourt, this is Alfred Sedge-more, who owns the property to the north of ours. He has been a very good friend to me.”

Richard didn’t doubt it; however, he kept his contemptuous suspicions from his face. “Your servant, sir,” he acknowledged with a bow.

“Mr. Sedgemore, this is my husband, the Earl of Dovercourt, formerly Sir Richard Blythe.”

“Elissa!” the man cried, aghast. “Mistress Longbourne—can this be true?”

“I assure you, Mr. Sedgemore, it is happily true,” Richard said in his best imitation of the Duke of Buckingham’s sophisticated drawl. “Sadly, I do not recall your name from former days. You must have purchased your property recently.”

“Your servant, my lord,” Sedgemore murmured, also bowing. He was not ungraceful, damn him, although even Foz made a better bow. “I bought my estate about the same time Mistress Longbourne’s—forgive me, Lady Dovercourt’s—late husband purchased his.”

“You must have been a very young and prosperous fellow.”

“I was young, yes, and somewhat prosperous, thanks to my father, who left me some
money. I was very glad to find such a delightful property for sale.”

“And with such a delightful neighbor, too.”

Alfred Sedgemore had done nothing to merit Richard’s scorn, Elissa thought, and yet there was no other word to describe her husband’s reaction to their neighbor.

To be sure, there was something about Alfred Sedgemore that did seem to invite a certain … distaste. Elissa had often felt less than completely comfortable in his presence. He was an avidly curious fellow, and for a long time she had lived in fear of what he might find out about her husband. Men always said women were terrible gossips, yet Elissa had never met anyone who so dearly loved to relate gossip as Alfred Sedgemore.

After William’s death, she still dreaded his visits, especially when his attentions altered enough that she started to consider how she would refuse his offer of marriage, if he made one.

Fortunately, he had not yet spoken of such matters, so she had begun to think her suspicions were ill-founded, and that he was merely being a kind and sympathetic neighbor.

“Has the king given back your estate?” Mr. Sedgemore asked.

“No, he has not,” Richard replied, his mocking smile growing as he approached them and put a proprietary arm around Elissa. “As you may have concluded, he has given me the former Mistress Longbourne instead.”

M
uch later that evening, Richard sat alone on the settle in the large room of the inn and slowly surveyed his surroundings. Its timbered ceiling was dark with age and smoke, and the plaster definitely in need of a new coat of whitewash. Sawdust covered the floor, its woody scent battling with the odor of smoke and ale. The moonlight streaming in through the window and a lone rushlight provided the only illumination. All the other guests, including his wife, had retired long ago.

The last time he had been here, his handsome father had stood near that particularly large stain on the wall beside the stone hearth, the blot like an odd sort of shadow.

In the other corner there had been a group of farm laborers seated around that same scarred wooden table. Their conversation had
ceased the moment he had entered with his father.

Mistress Hutchley had bustled about just as she had tonight, but he had been too young then to see the scorn beneath her grim expression. Martha had stood near the kitchen door, looking at them shyly and moving her toe in slow circles in the sawdust on the floor.

Whatever their reactions, his father had ignored them all, swaggering about with jovial arrogance as if they were fleas or flies.

It was no wonder, Richard mused, that he was able to perform that attitude so well, even if he did not have the same reason to do so. Indeed, he had performed the role of haughty aristocrat to perfection during dinner.

Elissa had invited Sedgemore to share their meal, which proved to be a very quiet affair. Will was clearly tired, despite another nap in the coach, and Elissa barely spoke. Neither did Sedgemore, because he was too busy staring at her the entire time, when he was not eyeing the new Earl of Dovercourt with obvious disgust.

Because of his reputation as a playwright and friend of the king? Or was there more to it than that?

As he sat alone in the dark, two things gave Richard comfort. The first and most important was the conclusion that Elissa had not heard about his parents. If she had, he realized, she
would have cast their alleged behavior up to him before this.

Elissa must never learn the truth, if he could help it. He wanted to retain a shred of respect in her beautiful eyes and shuddered to think that his dead parents could rob him of this chance for happiness as surely as their selfish natures had robbed him of his childhood.

Zounds, he must be turning simple. Happiness? Since when did marriage equal happiness, even if the woman was a beauty? He chuckled mirthlessly at his own stupidity. His mother had been a beauty and she had been the most selfish creature in England, with the possible exception of her husband.

The second thing that gave Richard comfort was that Sedgemore had stupidly tried to match him drink for drink. The idiot had barely been able to stand when the meal was over, and would surely be in agony tomorrow, which served him right.

Richard raked his hand through his hair and reminded himself it was foolish to feel jealous. Was it not the way of the world for husbands and wives to take lovers, especially when a marriage was forced? Had he not written about that several times in his plays? Was that not the case with his own unfortunately joined parents? It did not matter that he had long ascribed that activity to moral weakness and vanity; he had not been forced into marriage himself then. He knew better now.

Didn’t he?

He wondered if Elissa had fallen asleep yet. As a rule he detested sitting alone in the near dark, unless he was writing. He sighed and wished he had pen, ink and paper with him now, for writing always kept the bad memories at bay.

Tonight, however, he felt it necessary to sit here like some sort of contemplative monk, until he was too tired to feel desire for his wife so that there would not be a repetition of the humihating scene last night. He also wanted to ensure that he would be in control of his temper the next time he saw her, for he did not want to give her the slightest inkling that he could be made jealous.

He would never again allow other persons to hold his happiness in the palm of their hand, to be disregarded at whim or fussed over when it suited them, to never know when he was in favor or out, whether he would get a kind word or a slap across the face …

He thought of little Will, and hoped the child had been too tired to sense the tension at dinner. He silently vowed to make certain that, whatever the difficulties between himself and his wife, the boy was spared as much as possible. He had grown up in a house full of hate and secrets, and he would not want Will to share a similar fate.

“Oh, here you are, my lord.”

He shifted to regard Martha, who had come
from the kitchen and now stood regarding him with a sultry smile and predatory eyes.

Suddenly deciding that whether Elissa was asleep or not, it was time to retire, he rose at once and snuffed the rushlight. “Good night.”

“No need to run off. I was just going to close the shutters.”

She sauntered toward the windows, her hips swaying in what he knew she meant for a provocative manner. She reached up to close the shutters, the movement causing the fabric of her bodice to stretch over her voluptuous breasts.

He was quite sure she knew that, too. Then she latched the shutters, blocking out the moonlight so that they were alone in the dark.

If his wife did not welcome him, this woman would. Surely he had had enough confusion and refusal lately. Any man would understand that he had needs that should not be denied.

And yet the thought of coupling with this willing wench filled him with revulsion.

He heard her move closer and laugh softly. “You’ve grown up, Richard.”

“You should address me as ‘my lord,’” he noted, backing up carefully because it was difficult to see in the dark.

Suddenly Martha grabbed him and pulled him against her, grinding her hips blatantly against his body. She kissed him lustily and as her tongue invaded his mouth, her hands
sought his manhood as if she were the most experienced whore in Bankside.

He tried to pull away gently, but Martha held him in a grip of iron. Gentleness would not do.

With considerable force, Richard shoved Martha aside—and at the same moment, beheld Elissa standing on the stairs, a sputtering rushlight in her hand, her hair loose, and a robe held closed over her chemise.

“Elissa!”

“Richard,” she said, only the slight downturn of her lips giving evidence of any reaction to finding her husband in another woman’s arms. “I thought perhaps you had fallen asleep. I see I was quite wrong.” She turned on her heel. “Good night.”

“Elissa!” he cried again, taking a step toward her.

Martha grabbed his arm. “If she don’t mind, why not? I’m willin.’”

“I am not,” Richard growled as he shook off Martha’s grasp and hurried after his wife.

He caught up to her as she was about to enter the bedchamber. “Elissa!” he whispered intently.

She paused and regarded him steadily. “What is it? Would you like the light?”

“No!”

“Then good night.”

He took hold of her hand. “I would speak
with you. Downstairs, so we do not disturb anyone.”

“I do not think we have anything to discuss.”

“I
do.”

He thought she might refuse again, but she must have sensed his determination, for she nodded. “Very well. I shall light the way.”

She led him below as majestically as the king’s chamberlain.

Elissa tried to keep her hand holding the rushlight steady. She didn’t want Richard to know how upset she was to have found them together.

I will take my pleasure when and where I will, and there is not a thing in this world you can do to stop me.

William Longbourne’s words ran through her mind over and over again, along with all the pain of his numerous betrayals and the shock of her discovery of the decadent, immoral nature of the man she had married.

How could she forget that lesson? Because she was still a weak fool, perhaps. Because she had allowed herself to forget that this man was Richard Blythe, friend of the lascivious king, notorious playwright and chronicler of a licentious age. She should not expect morality and decency from a sophisticated man of London and the court, where adultery was considered something to be enjoyed, not condemned.
Taking lovers was nothing more than a game to play, and marital fidelity a joke.

Although it was not right, and she would never believe it was, she would not give him the pleasure of condemning her for a naive country bumpkin.

Fortunately, Martha had left the main room of the inn, Elissa noted as she sat on the settle near the hearth and set the rushlight on a nearby table. Richard took the chair opposite her, the flickering light playing about his angular face, his eyes deep in shadow, and his expression grim. Even then, and despite what she had seen, she found her body warming beneath his steadfast gaze.

“I have done nothing wrong,” he said softly.

“No?”

“No.”

“Because I interrupted at an inopportune moment, or because you do not consider betraying your wife a sin?”

“She was trying to seduce me.”

“How troubling for you,” Elissa replied, not believing him for an instant. How could she, given his reputation? “And you stayed down here so late trying to dissuade her, I suppose?”

“No. I stayed down here rather than come to bed with you.”

If he had struck her across the face, he could not have hurt her more. “I regret that seems such a horrendous fate, my lord. Perhaps you should have noted this to the king when he
made his proposal. I am quite certain he would have sympathized with your plight and spared us both. Unfortunately, you did not, and he did not.”

She rose to go, but he also stood and took hold of her arm to stop her. “Why should I be in any hurry to have you refuse my conjugal rights again?”