Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor (21 page)

Yours in life,

JS

Sobs shook her shoulders. Isolde could never imagine a moment more wonderful, or one more painful. Everything she had ever desired had slipped like water through her fingers, but she could not place blame at Lord Swenton’s feet. His integrity was one of the many things about the man, which she cherished.

“Miss Neville?” Jamie’s squeaky future baritone voice came from somewhere behind her.

Isolde quickly folded the letter and stuffed it into her work apron’s pocket. She used her knuckles to dash away the tears. “I am here, Jamie,” she answered without turning around.

The youth stopped short behind her. “Miss Neville, Doctor Timmons said to tell ye yer pa is awake.”

She stood and pretended to shake out her gown, never looking at the lad, who hoped to apprentice with Timmons. “I shall be there momentarily, Jamie. Thank you for seeking me out.” Isolde continued to shake out the gown, knowing a flash of her ankles would cause the boy to blush and dart away. When he retreated, she patted her cheeks dry with her handkerchief, tucked several strands of loose hair into her chignon, and then set her shoulders. She would have difficulty disguising her state from her father. Hiding how much the realization of never seeing Lord Swenton again had thrown her heart on the ground and stomped upon it soundly would proclaim her as the world’s greatest actress.

*

“Dearly Beloved…” He had made arrangements with the curate of a small parish some fifty miles northwest of his estate to conduct the ceremony without the calling of the banns in exchange for a hefty donation to the church. John thought it essential that he and Satiné speak their vows with speed and with privacy. He had sent word to Lord and Lady Worthing to act as their witnesses. Despite the viscount’s continued misgivings regarding whether John was making a wise decision, John had accepted the Kerringtons’ assurances of secrecy. He knew both Lord and Lady Worthing always to act with admiration.

“Why not turn Miss Aldridge over to Baron Ashton?” Kerrington had asked when John had explained the necessity of deception. They had shared cheroots on the terrace before going into supper. “It appears at opposition to criticize Satiné for her manipulations and then conduct your own. As a parent, I have learned that particular fact through trial and error.”

“Yet, I am not Satiné’s parent,” John had protested.

Kerrington’s eyebrow rose in skepticism. “Are you not? My wife’s cousin has proved herself quite immature. She blames the world for her situation when Satiné sets the standard. You must act the role of parent and husband if you persist in following through with your plans?”

John swallowed the bile, which had rushed to his throat. “What choice do I possess? My familial reputation cannot sustain being dragged through the murk again.”

“Then permit me to make arrangements for Doctor Perry to conduct the service at Linton Park. The others have known satisfaction after speaking their vows before the Linworth altar. Surely you do mean to break the chain!”

John argued, “I do not wish to observe the pity upon the countenances of the men with whom I have shared nothing of this marriage. It is best if fewer rather than more of the Realm recognize my dilemma.”

He could tell his friend wished to continue the argument, but, thankfully, Lady Worthing and Satiné had joined them on the terrace, and the viscount’s objections remained unspoken.

“John and Satiné,” the curate continued, “I now invite you to join hands and to speak your vows in the presence of God and his people.”

John reached for Satiné’s gloved hand. He could feel her tremble, and although John’s breathing had turned shallow, he squeezed her fingers in assurance. After the ceremony, he would be bound to her forever. The thought brought an expression of pain he was sore to hide. Glancing to Kerrington, he noted the worry upon his former captain’s lips.

John tightened his grip on Satiné’s hand, cleared his throat, and pronounced the vows provided by the curate. “I, John, take thee, Satiné, to my wedded wife…” Within a half hour, the deed was done: Satiné would walk beside him forever. Never again would he entertain the idea of knowing Isolde Neville.

After a light luncheon at a nearby inn, John pronounced his farewells to the Kerringtons. In spite of his friend’s having spoken against the joining, John had been pleased with how well Lady Worthing had handled Satiné the previous evening and during the ceremony. James Kerrington had chosen the perfect match; in fact, John thought each of his Realm associates had selected women who complemented his friends’ weaknesses with their own feminine strengths. He doubted if any would ever say the same of him.

“It was gracious of Lady Worthing to see to your gown today,” he said as they made their way toward Marwood Manor.

Satiné stared out the window. Although they had spoken their promises only a mere two hours prior, it was if they had been married for a lifetime. John imagined his friends enjoyed deep intimacies following their speaking their vows; yet, he had not dared to approach Satiné, even for a kiss. “My cousin thinks herself so wise simply because she is with child again.” The news had surprised John; Kerrington had not shared the glad tidings. Likely, the viscount thought it inappropriate under the circumstances. “Eleanor thought to speak of a wife’s duties; she even bragged of guiding the marquise before Grace Nelson married Lord Godown.” His wife spoke with a snit of disapproval. “It is not as if I hold no knowledge of a man’s lust.”

John spoke before he could stop the words. “I am grateful of the reminder of how you preferred another, Baroness; however, you might take note that a man’s pride is a dangerous opponent to offend.”

“How do I change my history, my Lord?” Satiné demanded. Her eyes were dark with frustration, but John’s temper had not been appeased.

“It is not your history of which we should speak. I prefer to know of your future–of our future.” A damnable inner voice, which spoke of his continued folly, drove his words.

“Do you wish my permission to consummate our marriage? Is that the purpose of your vituperation?” Her gaze dropped, as if Satiné thought to conceal her expression, but John had seen the snarl of distaste pull at her nose.

“I believe I have earned my welcome to your bed; after all, I have spent three months playing your dupe.” He leaned forward to speak in dark demand. “I explained my terms prior to your accepting my proposal. The issue is not open for negotiation. I will no longer be denied. I am your husband, Baroness. I plan to treat you kindly, but I expect you to reciprocate equally. For better, for worse.”

*

“Are you reading that letter again?” Her father chastised as he shoved himself higher in the bed. Isolde quickly refolded Lord Swenton’s letter and shoved it in her apron’s pocket. The men of
The Saltchuck
no longer required her constant attention; in truth, over the past few days, she had had too much time to think upon Lord Swenton’s painful decision.

She smoothed strands of her father’s too long hair from his cheeks. “I was thinking I should write to His Lordship and express our gratitude for his generosity. Doctor Timmons says you should be well enough to travel by the first part of next week. As quickly as we may, we should set a course for Liverpool and then book passage across the Irish Sea to home.”

Her father said with more perception than she would have liked, “Are you certain it is as you wish?”

Tears sprang immediately to her eyes, and Isolde dabbed at them with her handkerchief. “I have become quite the watering pot of late.” She brushed the teardrop from her cheek. “And as for what I wish, my thoughts all remain completely upon my father’s full recovery.”

He shook off her response. “It is not proper to speak a lie, Izzy, but I will not press you for an answer.” He shifted to one side. “Have you written to your brother and your uncles?”

“Yes, Papa. Although with the postal deliveries being what they are, we are likely to arrive at home before my letter.” Isolde caught his hand. “I am blessed to know the love of my family.” She thought,
So many have no concept of such love.

Her father’s eyes drifted closed. “You are the brick, which holds our home together. Without your devotion, we would be nothing.”

*

John had had two drinks prior to entering Satiné’s quarters. Since reuniting with Satiné Aldridge, he had developed a taste for French brandy, as well as American whiskey. After tonight, he would carry out his vow to leave the spirits behind. It appeared contradictory to complain of Satiné’s intake of laudanum if he were numbing his mind and body with heavy spirits. Mr. Coyle planned to return to London the following week. This evening, they had discussed in personal detail how John might teach Satiné to respond, as a wife should.

“In our conversations,” Coyle confided, “the baroness has indirectly expressed a distaste for sharing sexual pleasures.”

John asked suspiciously, “Why would Lady Swenton speak so familiarly?”

Coyle explained, “I have encouraged the baroness to speak of what frightens her or what has upset her.”

A scowl deepened the lines of John’s forehead. “I suppose my wife spoke of our earlier argument.”

Coyle shook his head in the negative. “Actually it was Lady Worthing’s description of the pleasantries found in the marriage bed, which caused Lady Swenton some consternation. I do not know the details shared, but I do recognize your wife’s anxiety. If you experience difficulties, you might keep my caution in mind.”

Unhappy to know of his wife’s aversions, he had swallowed two glasses of the American whiskey to slow his physical reaction to knowing his wife, at last, as well as to provide him the resolve to finish what must be done. “What a conundrum!” he mumbled. “Damned if I act, and equally damned if I do not.”

He tapped lightly upon her door before entering to find Satiné sitting upon the edge of her bed. Stiff. Eyes wide. John removed his banyan as he crossed the room, draping it across the back of a chair. He approached her slowly so as not to alarm Satiné further. “You look quite beautiful,” he said encouragingly. In reality, she had added a bit of weight of late, but certainly not enough. Through the white high-necked gown, he could observe her excessively thin form.

“Thank you, my Lord,” she whispered.

John sat beside her and pressed her backward to rest upon the bed. “Do not fret. We will start with a few kisses.”

“As you wish, my Lord.”

If John could have a wish, he would substitute the heavenly body of Isolde Neville for the skeletal form of his wife. However, he had chosen this woman, and so he kissed Satiné, attempting to add heat to their joining, but no matter what touches he plied, his wife had not responded. John lightly squeezed her breasts as he placed a line of kisses along her neck. Satiné turned her cheek and angled her body to permit him his caresses; yet, she whispered, “Could we blow out the candle?”

John reluctantly rose to cross the room to douse the light. When he looked back over his shoulder, in the moonlight, he could see Satiné had moved up in the bed and had raised her gown to her waist; however, it was everything but stimulating. She looked no more appealing than a cheap harbor whore; yet, an inner voice said, “Remember your duty to your heirs.”

Wishing he had another glass of the whiskey, John unbuttoned the placket of his breeches. Crawling across the bed to her, he kissed Satiné again, touching her to bring the dampness between her legs. His wife had closed her eyes tightly, and so had he. He freed his member, mounted her, and imagined Isolde. It was the only means by which he could live through this moment. Finally done, John rose, draped the counterpane across his baroness, kissed Satiné’s forehead, and picked up his banyan. He said nothing to her and neither did she to him. It would be their lives until Satiné could deliver forth several heirs, and then John would find a willing mistress to sate his desires. “Two heirs,” he thought as he entered his quarters, “and then Satiné will never know my lust again.”

Although John knew his men would never discover the Baloch, Mr. Sampson and his assistants had insisted upon tracking Jamot’s retreat from Marwood. John doubted the Baloch remained in the area; he suspected he had come too close to the truth of what had occurred in Persia for Mir’s man to tarry. Jamot was likely licking his wounds and preparing for a second assault, and so despite his reservations, he had promised Sampson he would accompany the gamekeeper to the far side of John’s estate. Someone had reported seeing strangers in the area of the Olde Cottage, the very one John had thought to offer for Miss Neville’s use during her father’s recovery.

“I will be away from the manor for a few hours,” he had informed Satiné over breakfast.

“To the village again?” she had asked drearily.

John placed preserves upon his toast. “No. Mr. Sampson requires my attention at the Olde Cottage.”

“Olde Cottage?” A flicker of curiosity had arrived.

Lord Worthing had not been far from the truth when he had declared Satiné quite childlike in many ways. “Yes. It is the cottage my grandfather three times removed had built for his mother when she became the Dowager Baroness. It remains one of my favorite spots on the estate. One can see the fields of heather upon the surrounding moors. It is quite picturesque.”

His wife’s indifference had returned. “I assume you will show me this
cottage
,” she said with irony, “before it becomes my permanent home when our son, if the Lord is willing, follows you as baron.”

John studied Satiné carefully. Although she spoke with a bit of terseness in her tone, at least, she had acknowledged her duty to produce an heir for his title. “I am pleased you intend to outlive me, my Dear,” He stood slowly. “I have been thinking we should take a short journey before the weather changes. I have long desired to view the renovations to the church at Durham. Society will not be as grand as in London, but you might enjoy what the town has to offer in shops and accommodations. In the autumn, we may enjoy time in Brighton or Bath. You may choose. “

“It would be pleasant to have additional company,” Satiné admitted.

He bent to kiss the top of her head. “Why do you not ask the stables to saddle Destiny? You appear as if you could use a bit of air, and it is a fine day. However, as you do not know the estate well, please be certain you ask a groom to accompany you.”

“I shall consider it,” his wife said softly. “Ride safe, my Lord.”

“You, too, Baroness.”

John looked upon the ransacked room. He had erred: Jamot had sought coverage in the Olde Cottage. “Appears your bullet found a home, Sir.” Mr. Sampson extended a bloodied towel in John’s direction.

John instinctively bent to gather the broken vase his grandmother had presented to his mother when Fiona Moraham married Jeremiah Swenton. It bothered him more than John could say to have his family’s mementos destroyed. They were the connection from his past to his future.

“The dogs have hit on a scent,” Sampson explained. “Ye wantin’ us to give chase, me Lord?”

John gave his head a hard shake to drive away the maudlin. “Probably best,” he reasoned, “but warn the men to practice care. If the culprit is Murhad Jamot, he will not hesitate to attack. The Baloch is injured and desperate. It is not worth capturing a thief if it means I lose a valuable employee.”

“Aye, Sir.”

“I will return to Marwood and organize those who would see to setting Olde Cottage aright.”

Sampson shook his head in disbelief. “It be a shame, Sir. I recall the day yer father brought yer mother to this very cottage to celebrate their wedding night. The baron beamed from ear to ear for he had won a worthy wife.”

John had heard his father speak often of the Olde Cottage. Had heard Jeremiah Swenton curse the day he laid eyes on the structure. The previous baron had claimed the cottage was not worth maintaining and should be burnt to the ground with everything in it. “What of my mother’s countenance on that day?” John asked curiously. He could not recall the servants ever speaking of the former baroness or of his parents’ marriage. He supposed his father had threatened their dismissal if any dared to express an opinion.

Sampson, who had been born upon Marwood and who would likely die without ever leaving the estate, smiled a toothy grin. “Lady Fiona be the prettiest bride I ever did see. She looked upon the late baron with surprise, and I think a bit of love. The previous Lady Swenton, well she be more than the gossips say. Smart and independent, yes, but never vicious. In truth, I never thinked the previous Lord understood his wife’s need to gallop across the countryside on that devil mount she brought with her from Warwickshire or how Lady Fiona thrived on climbing to the top of the old Roman fort. They be lovin’ each other, but not knowing how to express it. Begging your pardon, Sir, but you come by your stubbornness naturally.”

John chuckled. It was an eye-opening conversation. “There are not many men from whom I would accept such criticism.” The servant blushed with the realization of his error. John slapped Sampson good-naturedly on the back. “Call on me when you return to Marwood if you discover anything new.”

*

In the sennight, which had followed their wedding, he had visited Satine’s room four times to the same result. His wife refused to participate in their intimacies. Satiné had not denied him, but each night John had left her room feeling as if he had violated her. He continued to tell himself his actions were for the sake of his future children, but his reassurances did little to erase the feeling of disgust coursing through his veins.

Last evening, he had encouraged her, “Touch me, Satiné.” John had kissed her shoulder blade, attempting to prepare her for his entrance into her body.

“Touch you?” she asked in disbelief. “How? Where?”

John stared down at her. He practiced Coyle’s suggestion:
Teach your wife of the marriage bed
. “A man enjoys a woman’s touch. Permit your fingers to learn my body.”

“But I could not, my Lord,” she insisted. “It would be so…”

“Personal,” John had growled. “Marriage is personal, Satiné, and I have a name. It is
John
. I expect you to use it when we are thusly engaged.” Without preamble, he had entered her. John realized immediately he had caused her pain, but at the time, he had wished to punish her. However, afterwards, as she sobbed into her pillow, he had offered his sincere apologies and had cradled Satiné in his arms. “I will pray for restraint,” he had promised.

“The early post, my Lord.” Mr. Fenton placed the salver beside John’s empty plate and bowed his exit. As had become his custom of late, John spent a second, more moderate, meal with his wife when Satiné came down from her quarters. In that manner, he could monitor what his wife consumed for her breakfast. John flipped through the letters of business, and then his heart froze. A letter from Miss Neville, likely the last one he would ever receive, had come at last.

Reaching for his knife, John broke the seal. Motioning his footmen away, he lifted the paper to his nose, praying it held even the smallest essence of her and was not disappointed. A flood of memories surrounded him. Savoring the moment, he unfolded the page to read…

My Lord Swenton,

I am pleased to inform you my father has recovered from his illness, as have his shipmates. All that were once inflicted sing your praises, and you will be happy to know Doctor Timmons means to publish his findings. You have aided the man in bringing about a medical advancement. As for my father and me, we owe you the greatest debt of all, for your kindness has provided my family a new life. Papa and I shall depart Newcastle on Friday. We hope to sail for Ireland within a fortnight of our arrival in Liverpool.

“At least I have executed good judgment in one particular lady,” John murmured as his fingers traced her script. He wished they traced her soft curves instead.

My father means to have you know reimbursement for the outlay of expenses in his care. Once we return to Dublin, you may expect timely payments until the debt is paid.

“Foolish girl,” John grumbled. “I want not your father’s money. There is only one thing I would wish from Eoghan Neville, and it is something I can never possess.”

Now, I must beg your forgiveness for I must speak my heart if only this once. I can no longer leave unspoken the words I have given my heart permission to know. Mine is as miserable an existence as is yours. Every day brings fresh memories of our short acquaintance. I must remind myself to smile–to pretend we had not come so far. I dream of you beside me until the early morning light, and, each day, I pray for your well being and happiness. You shall remain the scale by which I shall measure all others. Only with you have I considered jumping into the abyss without fear someone would catch me. I shall never know such freedom again. With every beat of my heart, I remain your Isolde.

A rush of heat skimmed the back of John’s neck, and he sighed deeply. In his narrow sightedness, he had missed what likely could have been his great love. More than an arrow’s tip full of regret stabbed his heart. He braced himself inwardly against the pain he knew would follow. Their acquaintance had been brief, even fleeting, but John readily recognized its potential for completeness.

In some ways, he almost wished Isolde had never declared her blossoming affection. He was miserable–every day, every minute–and now he knew for certain the lady had experienced the same revelations as he. Carefully, John refolded the letter. It would remain forever among the memories from his past: a treasured toy horse his mother had purchased for him some three days before her departure; an essay he had written on political intrigue during the Tudor reign, which had won him honors and recognition while at university; and his father’s favorite ring, one handed down through five generations of barons at Marwood Manor. When his fingers had thickened with age, he had placed the ring with the other items, thinking to one day present it to his son. Now, Isolde’s simply written letter would have a revered place among his keepsakes. John shook his head in disbelief. “Previously, I was afraid to trust God’s plan for my life; now it is too late. I have chosen a path not meant for me.”

*

He and Satiné awaited his guests in the drawing room; John had finally convinced his baroness to host a small supper party for his neighbors. Earlier in the week, he had approached her. “When I was in the village today, several of the more curious asked of my new baroness. Would you accept the opportunity for company?”

“As you wish, my Lord,” his wife had said dutifully.

John had struggled against the white-hot frustration coursing through him. He had despised Satiné when she had argued with his suggestions to retreat to York, but he absolutely deplored this submissive role even more. Coyle had returned to London a week prior, and John had already discovered his wife slipping into her previous ways. If what he suspected proved true, Satiné’s emotional upheaval was due for a violent high again soon for his wife had been depressed for well over a week. “All I wish,” he whispered softly, “is to observe a genuine smile upon your lips.”

She had stared at him for the longest time, and John had held the idea, it was the first time Satiné had actually seen him. She nodded and with the slightest inclination of her chin, his wife had made her decision. She did not inform him of her choice, but he was certain his baroness had softened toward him, and surprisingly, John’s hope flickered to life once more.

The drawing room had filled quickly; John’s neighbors remained interested in his choice of wife. “Fáilte, Tá fáilte romhat,” he had said as he extended his hand to Lucas Cleary, the master of the estate adjoining his. “Conas atá cursaí leat?”

Cleary’s customary smile widened. “I am well and anxious to have the acquaintance of your baroness. We have long thought you should have entered the Marriage Mart.” Cleary caressed the back of his wife’s hand where it rested upon his friend’s arm.

John wished Cleary’s good humor would translate into John’s life. “Then come. I will make you known to Lady Swenton.” He led the Clearys to where Satiné kept company with the Marwood Chapel curate and his wife.

“Yes,” she explained. “Lord Swenton and I married in Vienna, but we repeated our vows in the Church once we arrived in England. My husband was most insistent it was so. His Lordship wished any heirs to be recognized by the Crown.”

John was thankful his wife had responded appropriately, but Satiné offered too many details. His covert service to the government had taught him a liar always crossed each “t” by covering every possibility.

“Our faith is important to us,” he added to placate the curate’s curiosity. “Now, if you will pardon us, the baroness has another admirer who begs her acquaintance.” The curate bowed his exit before John began, “My Dear, it is with great pleasure I present our nearest neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Cleary. Cleary, my wife, Lady Swenton.”

The trio of strangers executed the obligatory bows of greeting with Cleary bending low. “Lady Swenton, tá sé mar onóir.”

Satiné stiffened. “I fear, Mr. Cleary, I speak only English. I am not familiar with the Irish tongue.”

Cleary blushed, but John heard the man’s wife murmur under her breath, “Ní leor teanga amháin.” In truth, John agreed privately with Mrs. Cleary: too many Englishmen thought inwardly, when to know success they should open themselves to new ideas. It was true: One language was never enough.