Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (41 page)

Eleanor blinked with surprise. "If they deserve it."

"Oh."

"I was whipped many a time as a girl. I was a sore trial to my parents."

Judith said, "Would you whip Arabel?"

"No," Eleanor said sharply, then bit her lip. "Something to discuss with Nicholas, I think. This concerns you?"

"It is something Leander and I have talked about. He seems to think Bastian will be beaten at school."

"I fear he's correct. I remember a discussion as to whether this harshness turns men into brutes, or is a consequence of their inborn brutality."

"Leander is not a brute," protested Judith.

Eleanor smiled. "Neither is Nicholas. Nor even Lucien de Vaux, though he has a strong streak of violence in him."

Judith looked into her cup. Having raised one touchy subject, she was wondering if it might be possible to talk about marital duties with Eleanor Delaney. The time was surely coming again, and with all the shocks and troubles in her brief marriage, she felt she must handle it better the next time.

"Was there something you wished to say, Judith?" asked Eleanor gently.

Judith looked up. "I want to talk about the marriage bed."

Eleanor colored a little. "Oh. I do not mind..."

Judith licked her lips. "Sebastian... Sebastian always came to my room when I was in bed, in the dark. He was quite quick about it. I... Leander seems to want it differently. I wondered what was normal..."

"Normal," said Eleanor, and Judith could see she was a little embarrassed. "I am afraid I cannot say. Nicholas and I..."

"Oh, please," said Judith quickly. "I am sorry. I should never have asked. But how is anyone to know," she demanded in frustration, "if nobody speaks of it?"

Eleanor laughed. "How true. Actually, there are books."

"Books!"

"Indeed. But I can tell you that many things are normal for us. Sometimes we make love in the dark, sometimes in the light Once or twice," she said, rather pink, "out of doors."

Judith struggled not to gape. "I see."

"Judith," said Eleanor, "this is going to be impertinent but did you enjoy making love to Sebastian?"

"Enjoy...?" Judith had never even thought of it as making love. "No," she said.

"And do you enjoy making love to Leander?"

Judith didn't dare think of
making love
to him. "A little," she admitted.

Eleanor wrinkled her brow. "I think you should encourage him to do anything he wants. You will probably find you enjoy it even more. But I can't be sure. I know some women find it an arduous imposition. As you say, it is not discussed."

Judith realized she was crumbling a biscuit and stilled her hands. "What's the difference between marital duties and making love?" she asked.

Eleanor looked blank. "Nothing, I suppose. I just think making love sounds more pleasant, and more exact. For Nicholas and I it is an expression of love."

"How
do you express your love?" Judith asked desperately.

"I am not sure I know what you are asking."

Judith took a deep breath. In for a lamb, in for a sheep. "When Leander asked me to marry him, it was because I was a grieving widow who wouldn't fall in love with him. Well, I have," she said defiantly. "But I am trying not to burden him with that knowledge. I know that his parents' situation—with his mother doting on his father, and his father not caring a jot—was very painful for him. I don't want to... to make love, if it will tell him I love him."

"Goodness," said Eleanor blankly. "I'm sure... Oh dear." She leant forward and took Judith's hand. "I don't know what to say about that, Judith, but I think what you're talking about is what is called an orgasm. An explosion of pleasure. At the simplest level it has nothing to do with love. A man and woman who hate each other," she said bleakly, eyes looking into the past, "can give each other an orgasm." She shook herself. "No matter what you decide to do about your feelings for your husband, don't deny yourself, and him that release. Wait a moment."

She left the room and returned with a book.
"Avertino's Postures,"
she said with a naughty twinkle. "Translated from the Italian. It is what is called erotica. It may help. Now, I must speak to Mrs. Patterson."

When alone, Judith looked at the book warily, then opened it at random. She gaped. Why on earth would any two people want to get into that position? And the text... It described the strangest things. With sudden resolution she closed the book. Perhaps in time it would be of use, but at the moment she feared it would terrify her into rejecting Leander entirely.

What if he wanted her to...?

She leapt to her feet to pace the room, aware of strange stirrings similar to those she had felt with Leander in her big down mattress.

She had her answer. Sebastian and she had been doing it wrong, and she must encourage Leander to show her how to do it right, and try not to object at the extraordinary things he would expect. And that strange feeling she had experienced, and the sense of aching disappointment, had doubtless all been to do with this orgasm, which had nothing, at the simplest level, to do with love.

She wondered what Eleanor had meant by that modifying clause, but put the thought away. At least now she didn't have to be afraid of revealing too much during her marital duties.

Traitorously she thought, during making love.

Chapter 20

It took Leander, Nicholas, and Rossiter four tedious days to reach London, for they encountered snow. On arrival, they went to Nicholas's house on Lauriston Street, where his staff were all well trained to accept the unusual. They locked the cowed Rossiter in a room, then Leander went out to establish the extent of the man's crime. It was Saturday, and if he didn't get to the printer's before they closed, they doubtless would get little information before Monday.

Algernon Browne had no hesitation in providing information to the husband of Sebastian Rossiter's widow, and was aghast to realize what had been going on.

"Believe me, my lord, I know nothing of this. I only met Mister Rossiter—Mister Sebastian Rossiter—once. I gather he did not care for travel, or London. He signed papers to make his brother his agent in all things. See," he said, producing a document. "I have a copy."

Leander looked at it. It was comprehensive. Sebastian Rossiter must have been a damned idiot. "How can he not have realized his work was making money?"

Mr. Browne shrugged. "The only correspondence I ever had with him was concerning the special editions. He paid for them directly...." He blanched. "Good Lord! Do you mean his brother took all his profits and allowed him to pay for those! And his widow... The countess... My lord, I insist you take the money back!"

Leander found some bank notes thrust upon him. He took them because he saw it would ease the man's conscience, though in truth it seemed he had done nothing wrong.

"And you must believe," said Mr. Browne urgently, "I had no idea that his widow was living in straitened circumstances. None at all."

They sat down with the books and established that over twenty years Timothy Rossiter had diddled his brother out of close to thirty thousand pounds. "Struth," said Leander. "All that from verses?"

"They were, are, extremely popular, my lord. What will you wish to be done about future income?"

Leander looked at him. "Do you mean it's still coming in?"

"Oh yes. He still sells quite steadily." Mr. Browne gave Leander a shrewd look and cleared his throat. "A new volume, a posthumous volume, would sell extremely well, my lord."

"Would it, indeed. But is there anything to put in one?"

"Not that we have." The man cleared his throat again. "I... er... did ask Lady Charrington about any papers, and she said there were none. A more thorough search...?" he murmured tactfully.

Leander smiled dryly. "With no profit coming in, and over a hundred pounds to pay, I can see why she wasn't enthusiastic. If there are any unpublished works, it will be for my wife to say what is done with them, but I can see no harm in it. It would mean additional funds for the children. I fear that little of the previous profits remains unspent. From Timothy Rossiter's incoherent explanations to date, it was his desperation at the ending of his income that drove him to dire measures." He stood and shook the man's hand before taking his leave.

Thirty thousand pounds, he thought, as he made his way back to Lauriston Street, glancing in lamp-lit windows as he passed. He suddenly stopped and laughed. There in a bookseller's was an arrangement of books of poetry by Sebastian Rossiter, and even as he looked one was plucked away to be sold. Another few pennies for Bastian. Someone else to enjoy the poems written about Judith.

He walked into the shop and picked up a volume, opening it at random.
Amid the roses, gold and white/ There's ne're a bloom with beauty quite/Like Judith in my loving sight/ My rose, my wife, my light.

He tried a different collection.
What joy is Judith, calm, serene./ I know that I am Blessed./ Fair jewel of heaven, Eve supreme/ By passion ne'er caressed.

"Sounds damned dull to me," Leander muttered.

A clerk appeared at his side."May I help you, sir?"

Leander put the book down. "Sells well, does it?"

"Oh yes, sir. One of our more popular authors. A sure favorite with the ladies."

Leander left the shop. Could he compete with the memory of that devotion? No matter how much of a nincompoop Sebastian Rossiter had been, that sort of sentimental twaddle was clearly the road to a lady's heart and had Judith's snared forever.

He cursed under his breath, and felt an insane urge to smash his fist through the nearest window. What had happened to all his cool control? How was he to live with Judith without searing her with the passion he felt?

A fine twist of fate. He hadn't wanted to be tied to a woman who loved him when he couldn't return that love. Now the shoe was on the other foot. He wanted to shower Judith with gifts; he wished he were able to write poetry; he wanted to put his head in her lap and find peace with her. And he, more than most, knew the agony of being the recipient of that kind of unwanted devotion.

He found he was staring in the window of a grocer's. The light was going and soon the shop would close. He laughed at himself. Well, if he couldn't shower her with love, he could shower her with the comforts of life. He went in and bought a vast quantity of supplies.

The sales clerk beamed. "And where shall these be delivered, sir?"

"Temple Knollis, Somerset."

The man's eyes widened. "Yes, sir. I'll have them on the carrier on Monday, sir."

"How long will that take?"

"About a week, sir. Though with Christmas coming..."

"Don't bother," said Leander. "I'll send them post."

"Post!" the man gulped.

"That's what I said. Where's the nearest staging inn?"

"Er... the Swan... But—"

"Then send it there."

Leander made his way briskly to the Swan, and hired a chaise and four, and a man to escort his goods. He warned them there would be more, and went on to buy wine, spirits, fruit, and a collection of livestock—a turkey, two geese, and two ducks. There, that should ensure a degree of comfort for them all at Christmas.

He returned to Lauriston Street and explained the finances to Nicholas. Almost incidentally, he told him about the provisions.

Nicholas's lips twitched. "And you sent it all down by post-chaise."

"How else? Shall we take Rossiter over to his rooms now and see what he's worth?"

"Ah, Lee," said Nicholas with a grin. "I always did admire your panache."

Timothy Rossiter did not appear to be worth much, though his rooms were elegant and his possessions of the best. He even had a valet, who made himself scarce when told to.

A quick search, and a check of the account books, told the truth.

"Spent the lot, didn't you?" asked Nicholas of the man who sat huddled in a chair by the empty grate.

"Not at first," said Rossiter miserably. Leander saw Rossiter had decided Nicholas was someone he could talk to. A common conclusion, and quite correct. Unfortunately for the believers, it did not mean that Nicholas was particularly forgiving.