Once Upon a Moonlit Night: A Maiden Lane novella (7 page)

She was a coward, pure and simple, Hippolyta thought two hours later as she stared morosely out the carriage window at the London street. She’d fled their marriage bed, refusing to discuss the blackmail letter with Matthew no matter how he’d roared and shouted, simply waiting in her dressing room until he’d given up and left the house. Then she’d bathed and dressed and made her own escape.

She’d told herself it was because she had appointments today, but she knew: she couldn’t look her husband in the eye. She’d married Matthew under false pretenses. He’d been all but forced into this marriage in the first place—and then to find that her pedigree wasn’t what an English aristocrat would want…

She blinked back tears. She loved her
amma
, but she knew what most Englishmen thought of native Indian people—the horrible names they called them. The bizarre belief that Indians weren’t actually as
human
as Englishmen. Papa had married
Amma
, but there had been Indian women kept as mistresses—and worse—in India by Englishmen.

Matthew had been to India. He had seen that, too. What must he think of her?

And then…and
then
for the only benefit to him of their marriage—her dowry—to be taken away by this blackmail? How could she weigh the two? The shame of her parentage versus the loss of the money he needed to rebuild the Paxton estates?

Hippolyta laid her head against the carriage cushions and took a shuddering breath. She’d thought this morning, after last night’s sweet lovemaking, that everything might—just
might
—work out between them. That they would manage to bumble along well—very well—together. Perhaps even find something deeper and more rare between them.

And then she’d opened that blasted letter and everything had fallen to pieces.

The carriage jerked to a stop.

She lifted her head to see that they were outside a fine town house. Oh. She was supposed to be calling upon Lady Whimple to discuss the ball her grandson, the viscount, was throwing in a fortnight. Lady Whimple lived with her grandson, and Matthew and Hippolyta were to be guests of honor—a way to smooth over the scandal of their hasty wedding.

The blackmailer had said in the letter that he—or she—wanted to be paid at the ball.

Was there a point in seeing Lady Whimple anymore? But since she was here regardless…

Five minutes later Hippolyta was shown into an elegant sitting room decorated in crimson and apple green.

Lady Wimple nodded to her from where she was comfortably ensconced on a gilt-edged settee. “I hope you don’t mind if I remain seated, my dear. Age before rank, I fear.”

“Of course not, ma’am,” Hippolyta said, crossing to the older woman and bending to kiss the soft, wrinkled cheek.

“Now here is the invitation list I’ve had my housekeeper draw up,” Lady Whimple said, proffering a sheet of paper. “Do look it over and tell me if there’s anyone you wish to add.
Or
strike out, come to that. I’m in favor of being quite ruthless with one’s enemies—or even potential enemies.”

Hippolyta tried to paste a cheerful expression on her face at the other lady’s banter, but apparently she failed.

Dismally.

Lady Whimple’s eyebrows snapped together. “Whatever is the matter, gel?”

Hippolyta felt her face crumple as she sank to the settee beside the older woman. “I…I don’t know what to do.”

“Indeed?” Lady Whimple eyed her a moment, then carefully rose and walked to a marble-topped side table and poured two glasses of dark-amber liquid from a decanter. She returned and handed one to Hippolyta. “My grandson’s French brandy. Drink it and tell me.”

So Hippolyta did.

By the time she’d finished both the story and her second glass of brandy, she clutched a bedraggled, wet handkerchief that Lady Whimple had supplied her with early in the narration, and her eyes were sore from crying, but she actually felt a bit better, not least because her limbs were feeling warm and relaxed from the brandy.

Lady Whimple, though, had a rather worrying thoughtful expression on her face.

“Well, the first thing you must do is go back and talk to that husband of yours,” the older woman said decisively from beside her on the settee. They had somehow ended up a little slumped together.

“Must I?” Hippolyta asked, eyeing her empty brandy glass sadly. The thought of facing Matthew again was quite awful.

“Yes,” Lady Whimple said. “Many husbands are quite useless or worse—downright dangerous. But Paxton seems a good man—a man who will stand by you and help you.”

“But what must he think of me?” Hippolyta pouted, thinking about Matthew’s expression as he’d stomped about and yelled this morning. She dipped her finger in her glass to get the last drop of brandy.

“
I
certainly don’t know,” Lady Whimple exclaimed. “That is why you must talk to
him
, you see. Gentlemen can be surprisingly practical, I’ve found.”

Hippolyta peered up at the older lady and found her staring sternly down at her.

“Go to him,” Lady Whimple said, “and decide what you will do
together
. That is, after all, what marriage is supposed to be about.”

Hippolyta swallowed. She’d been a great coward today, but perhaps it was past time she stopped. “You’re right, of course.”

She set her glass down very carefully and made to get up before she remembered something important.

She leaned over and kissed the elder lady on her soft, powdery cheek. “Thank you. I don’t have a grandmother living, but if I did, I wish she was just like you.”

“Humph,” was all Lady Whimple said to that, although she did look a little pleased by the comment.

Hippolyta stood and drew a deep breath. She wasn’t looking forward to going home and confronting Matthew, but Lady Whimple was right: he deserved a wife who talked matters over with him instead of fleeing when there were difficulties.

“I just
don’t
understand your generation
at all
,” Lady Whimple muttered from the settee.

Hippolyta turned. The older woman was frowning ferociously. “What don’t you understand, ma’am?”

Lady Whimple waved a hand, nearly knocking over one of the brandy glasses. “This
shrinking
from grand exhibitions and loud and very public conflicts.”

Hippolyta blinked. “Erm…”

Apparently Lady Whimple wasn’t done, however. “Why, in
my
time we knew that sometimes it was best to
flaunt
the scandal before all. To acknowledge it,
embrace
it, and make it one’s
own
scandal. Only in this way do you spike the guns of those wretched gossips, my dear. You show them that you revel in what they think you fear or are ashamed of. And then they are forced to turn away. Do you understand?”

Hippolyta stared at the older lady, so vehement in her argument. Everything Lady Whimple had said was the exact opposite of what Hippolyta had been told ever since she’d come to England. Ever since she’d entered London society.

And yet…

Perhaps it was the result of the tears she’d shed or the two glasses of brandy or the fact that she’d spent days dressed as a beggar in the wilds of Yorkshire, but Hippolyta suddenly felt rather free.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I think I do.”

When his bedroom door opened that night Matthew tensed, but didn’t turn. He’d spent the day calling in every favor he had in London to try to find out who had written that bloody note to Hippolyta. He was almost certain he knew who the blackmailer was now, but even that satisfaction didn’t make him any more pleased with his wife at the moment.

“Decided to return, did you, Princess?” He swallowed his glass of wine and set it down on the mantel.

“Yes.” She didn’t sound cowed by his black mood.

Well, of course she didn’t.

He turned finally.

Hippolyta stood just inside the closed door, still in her fur-trimmed cloak, her chin tilted high. “I think we should talk.”

He cocked an eyebrow and waved a hand in invitation.

She licked her lips. So. A
bit
nervous, then. “I’m sorry you didn’t know about my mother.”

He snorted. “What makes you say that?”

Her eyes widened. “I…what?”

“Do you really take me for such a fool? You all but told me in the carriage in Yorkshire that your mother was a native Indian.”

“I…” She blinked, looking a little dazed, and he shouldn’t feel satisfaction at her confusion, but it
had
been a sodding awful day. “You already knew?”

He looked at her impatiently. “Yes.”

“And…it doesn’t matter to you?” She was staring at him intently.

“No.”

“Oh.” She frowned down at her toes as if nonplussed.

He waited a moment, but she was still staring at her toes as if they might tell her the secrets of the universe, so he asked a question. “Do you want to pay the blackmailer?”

Her head jerked up at that. “I thought it didn’t matter to you.”

“It doesn’t to me,” he said, reining in his patience. “But it obviously does to you.”

She opened her mouth and then shut it again. “If you paid the blackmailer, you’d ruin the Paxton estates.”

“No, they’d go back to being in debt. Just the way I inherited them.” He shrugged. “Besides, it’s your money.”

“No.” She shook her head. “It’s yours now.”

“Semantics.” He shook his head, watching her, judging her mood, her thoughts. “I want you to be happy. If keeping your mother a secret makes you happy, then we’ll do it.”

“I’m…” She inhaled shakily. “I’m not ashamed of my mother.”

He waited, poised, listening to his own heartbeat. To his breathing. “Aren’t you?”

She met his eyes and lifted her chin. “No.”

He nodded. “Then we won’t pay the bastard.”

She smiled at him then, a wide, welcoming smile, and that was when he broke.

He crossed the few feet that separated them and took her face between his hands, and whispered, “Don’t run away from me again, even if I shout. Stay and shout back. Understand, Princess?”

She met his eyes and nodded.

And that was all he could wait for. He groaned and covered her mouth with his, feeling something within himself unwind and stretch—finally—now that she’d come back to him. This woman was his, now and forever, and he would protect and hold her against all comers.

He bent and lifted her, cradling her against his chest, striding with her to the bed. He set her on her feet and pushed the cloak off her shoulders.

She stood still and watched him, wide-eyed, as he unlaced and untied all her bloody complicated clothing—far, far too much clothing. Clothing that bound and compressed and tied her in, keeping her apart from him.

He freed her hair and buried his shaking fingers in the mass, lifting it to his face, inhaling lilac, and knew he was lost, maddened with something far more dangerous than mere lust. She’d conquered him and she’d no idea she’d even done it.

“Matthew,” she whispered, and he felt her hands untying the cord at his nape. Her fingers threading through his hair.

He lifted his head and covered her mouth again, kissing her desperately, like a man who had been deprived of light and sound and sensation. Of life itself.

She was his heartbeat.

When he raised his head, gasping, she stared up at him, and lifted a finger to his face, whispering, “Matthew.”

He didn’t know what she saw there, but it didn’t matter anymore.

He was bare before her.

He lifted her with shaking hands to sit on the side of the bed and then dropped to his knees before her. He parted her thighs, ignoring her faint protests, batting away her anxious fingers. He pulled her forward until her bottom rested on the very edge of the mattress and he could sling her legs over his shoulders. And then he bent and parted her black curls and sucked on sweet woman flesh. Salmon red and succulent, weeping for him. Her fingers clutched his hair, pulling painfully, and he heard her shriek.

The servants would think he was ravishing her again.

Maybe they’d be right.

He licked and sucked, feeling her soft thighs tremble against his jaw. His woman under him. His to cherish.

His to keep.

He cherished her until she shook and moaned and screamed again and he lifted his face to see her dazed and knew that if he didn’t sink his cock into her wet pussy he’d come in his breeches like a downy lad.

He stood and ripped open his falls and lifted her legs and buried himself.

Sweet, sweet heat.

Then he was pumping into her too fast, too hard. He would hurt her, but she was so tight and wet and she was his.

His wife.

His Princess.

His Hippolyta.

The base of his spine seemed to explode as he grunted and ground into her, spilling, spilling, spilling until he lost mind and sight.

And as he fell beside her, boneless and exhausted, he felt her lips on his brow like a benediction.

Two weeks later Hippolyta placed her hand in Matthew’s palm and stepped carefully down from their carriage.

“Thank you.” She smiled nervously at her husband and glanced at the bustle of activity around them.

The Viscount d’Arque’s grand ball was one of the highlights of the season and not to be missed by the most fashionable of London’s elite. Carriages crammed the square as footmen and drivers jockeyed to let down their passengers. D’Arque’s town house was ablaze with lanterns, and a parade of cloaked ladies and gentlemen were slowly moving up the stairs and into the house.

“You look a treat, my lady,” Charlie assured her as he handed her Tommy.

She smiled her thanks at the newly minted footman, tucking the mongoose into the crook of her elbow. Josiah tipped his hat and gave her a wink before turning the horses’ heads away.

All the servants wanted her to do well tonight.

Hippolyta swallowed and straightened her shoulders, taking her husband’s arm.

Matthew met her gaze, his own steady and warm. “Ready?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Then let’s go in.”

He led her up the stairs and into the brightly lit house. A footmen helped her take off her cloak. That was when she heard the first gasp. But it wasn’t until they were shown up the stairs and into the entrance to the ballroom that the silence began to spread.

That’s when she stumbled a bit.

But Matthew caught her so that none of those watching could see the hesitation. “Head held high, Princess,” he murmured in her ear.

She inhaled slowly and tilted her chin proudly as he escorted her into the room. She wore the colors and fabrics of her mother’s land tonight: light airy silks in saffron and emerald green, dark ruby reds and sapphire blues, all shot through with gold thread and embroidery. Draped in a way that no English lady would
ever
cover her form. She’d left her hair unbound, brushed to a luster and covered with a translucent ruby veil. Her eyes were heavily lined with kohl, mysterious and utterly un-English when she’d looked in her mirror. Her mother’s gold bracelets and rings decorated her wrists and fingers, reminding her with every movement of her hands whence she came. Even Tommy was part of her costume. He wore a gold-and-ruby bracelet as a collar—he’d
not
liked it the first time he’d tried it on—and looked very handsome indeed.

Matthew was a solid presence beside her, large and warm and comforting, but the silence was spreading and she knew everyone was
staring
at her. That inevitably her face was warming. It was hard to appear indifferent to the looks, the heads bent together, the whispering.

Lady Whimple and her grandson glided into their path.

“My lady.” Lord d’Arque bowed over her hand, his voice clear and carrying. “What an exquisite ensemble you wear tonight. I vow your beauty graces us as the moon does the night.”

Dead silence met his words as he kissed her knuckles. Murmurs exploded around the ballroom as he straightened.

Lord d’Arque’s gray eyes held a wicked gleam.

Then his eyes widened. “Good lord, what is
that
?”

In the crook of her arm, Tommy chirped.

Lady Whimple peered at the little animal. “I believe that is a mongoose.”

The viscount turned incredulous eyes on her. “And what do you know gooses from mongooses,
Grand-mère
?”

She rapped him sharply on the arm. “More than
you
, obviously.” She reached out a bent forefinger and scratched Tommy under the chin, prompting him to trill. “Ah. Perhaps I should obtain a mongoose myself. They seem quite affectionate little creatures.”

Lord d’Arque looked alarmed. “Paxton, take your countess away at once. She’s clearly a bad influence on my grandmother.”

Beside her Matthew chuckled and bowed. “As you wish, d’Arque.”

He turned with her, strolling away, and bent his head toward hers. “Better?”

“Much,” she whispered back.

People still stared, but the viscount’s showy greeting had blatantly declared to everyone his—and his grandmother’s—approval. And both d’Arque and his grandmother were lions of society. Their approval
meant
something.

The awful silence was broken.

For the first time she noticed that the ballroom was decorated with mounds of red and white carnations, scenting the air with cloves.

She inhaled, glancing around, and saw several familiar faces. “Oh, will you take me over there where that lady in the cream dress is talking to the lady with the auburn hair?”

She felt Matthew’s glance. “You know them?”

“Yes.”

They walked sedately over and only as they neared did one of the ladies look around. “Hippolyta! Oh, how lovely you look!”

She accepted a kiss on the cheek from Artemis Batten, the Duchess of Wakefield, and one from Lady Hero Reading before proudly introducing her husband to her friends.

As Matthew rose from his bow, Hippolyta felt herself smiling and relaxing.

Just a tiny bit.

He gave her a nod.

She chatted with Artemis and Hero for a few minutes, catching up with the gossip in town, aware all the time of Matthew’s comforting presence by her side.

After a little while he leaned close and said, “Can I leave you here?”

She looked at him, all her apprehension flooding back. “Is it time?”

He nodded.

She suddenly wished that she could kiss him here in the middle of this crowded ballroom. He’d absolutely refused to tell her who he suspected the blackmailer was, but she had her own suspicions.

Montgomery.

Whom she didn’t trust an inch.

She’d tried to warn Matthew, tried to make him bring at least Josiah and Charlie with him to the meeting, but he’d been stubborn.

And now it was too late.

She opened her mouth and said the only thing she could. “Of course.”

She watched helplessly as he turned and made his way toward the side of the ballroom and a small door.

Then she smiled as Artemis bent and cooed at Tommy. Now all she had to do was wait.

And try not to think about her husband meeting a dangerous blackmailer.

The blackmail note had specified d’Arque’s library. Matthew slipped into the dimly lit corridor behind the ballroom. These were the home’s private apartments—not meant to be open to the public tonight. Whoever had sent the blackmail note knew the layout of d’Arque’s town house well.

He strode down the hall and opened a door at the end.

D’Arque’s library ran along the back of the house, three tall windows with French doors opened onto the terrace, though they were curtained at the moment. A fire burned low at one end of the room and someone sat in one of the chairs grouped before the carved and polished wood mantel.

Matthew prowled to the man and tossed the blackmail letter on his lap.

“I told Hippolyta to come,” Hartshorn said irritably.

“She won’t be.”

“The money—”

“Won’t be coming, either,” Matthew bit out.

Hartshorn’s lip curled. “Then all of London will know that you’ve married a half-breed. That your future children won’t be entirely English.”

“They already know,” Matthew said with some satisfaction. “You must not have seen our entrance to the ball. She came tonight in her mother’s raiment. Right now my wife is being feted by London’s most socially prominent. They’ve taken one look at her and decided she’s exotic and beautiful and
interesting
. By night’s end I’ve no doubt most of London’s ladies will be clamoring for mongoose pets and Indian silk draperies. You’ve
lost
, Hartshorn.”

Hartshorn’s eyes were wide and glaring now. “That bitch and her bitch mother! Thirty years ago that little native girl refused me, made as if she were too good to spread her legs for me. Went to Royle and then he had the unmitigated gall to marry the wench! I ask you, what Englishman in his right mind would
marry
a disgusting, unwashed—”

“Stand up,” Matthew gritted through his teeth.

“Black-skinned—”

Matthew didn’t bother waiting for the other man to stand anymore. He grasped Hartshorn by his neckcloth, hauled him to his feet, and then knocked him back down again with one blow to the jaw. Really, he ought to’ve dragged the other man back up again after that, but he’d been waiting for a bloody fortnight at this point and Hartshorn had driven Hippolyta to tears more than once in that time.

And no one had ever accused Matthew of being a patient man.

So he knelt and proceeded to drive his fist into Hartshorn’s face over and over again in a quite cathartic way until he became aware of shouting and hands upon his shoulders pulling him back.

Matthew looked up and saw d’Arque with Sir George and Lady Whimple and, behind them, a crowd from the ballroom.

But more importantly, Hippolyta was shoving her way to the front and looking worried.

“What have you done to your hand?” she asked, sounding quite scandalized.

Matthew already knew that voice. He was going to be in for a wifely scolding on the carriage ride home.

Hippolyta began wrapping his bloodied knuckles in a dainty lace handkerchief—quite ineffectively—and he glanced over her head at Sir George.

Her father was glaring down at the half-conscious Hartshorn. “I’ll no longer be doing any business with you after this, Richard. I’ve already notified my solicitors to deny you any credit, and to call in all your letters of debt to me.”

Hartshorn’s eyes widened in panic at that. “You can’t do that, George! You’ll bankrupt me. I…I’ll have to leave the country.”

Sir George leaned close to the bloodied man and hissed, “You should’ve thought of that when you tried to hurt my Hippolyta.”

He straightened, tugged on his waistcoat, and turned before evidently thinking of something else and giving Hartshorn a swift vicious kick in the ribs.

Hartshorn groaned.

Sir George cleared his throat. “Coming, my dear?”

“Oh, yes, Papa,” Hippolyta murmured distractedly. She’d tied a sloppy knot over his knuckles and they hurt like hell, but Matthew wasn’t going to tell her that because she was looking quite happy.

And that made him unaccountably happy.

Lady Whimple gave a great exhalation. “Well! This is all very satisfactory. I can’t think when I’ve seen a scandal with greater dash.”