Lady Anne's Deception (6 page)

“I shall change all that,” said Annie stubbornly.

“Rakes never change,” said Marigold. “Everyone except you knows that.”

But those sorts of remarks were all Annie expected from Marigold. A man settled down once he was married. No one could expect him to behave like a monk before then. All of her romances had been full of wild and savage heroes who had been tamed and brought to heel by the love of a pure and innocent girl. So it must be true.

The time until the marquess’s return from France hurried past in a bewilderment of fittings and pinnings and shopping. Marigold went alone to balls and parties with Aunt Agatha. The Earl and Countess of Crammarth bustled about Annie as if they had just given birth to her.

And then the marquess returned. Annie had met his parents and had searched, without success, their austere, cold faces for some sign of their son’s sunny insouciance. They seemed to neither approve nor disapprove of her.

Her fiancé arrived too late for the wedding rehearsal, so Annie’s cousin, Jimmy Sinclair, had to stand in as groom. But nothing could dim Annie’s flying spirits, her heady feeling of success. The Countess of Crammarth was so engrossed with the multiple arrangements for a society wedding that she failed to arrange for the couple to be left alone when the marquess called to see his fiancée. She also failed to give that little talk to her daughter about the intricacies of the marriage bed.

Annie was almost as innocent as the day she was born when she walked proudly up to the altar of St.

George’s, Hanover Square, on her father’s arm.

Her slim figure in a dress of priceless old lace gave the lie to the gossips who had hinted that there must be a sinister reason—in the heraldic sense—for the rushed wedding.

Marigold as maid of honor looked a blonde vision. But this was Annie’s day of triumph. She could see no farther ahead than this one splendid, glorious day.

She knew that she and Jasper were to spend the night at his town house and then to travel to Paris on their honeymoon, but she thought vaguely of it all as a sort of family holiday.

The wedding breakfast was held at the newly opened Ritz Hotel in Piccadilly since Aunt Agatha’s house in Manchester Square was not nearly large enough to hold all of the guests.

Annie’s highly colored fairy tale went on. She sat proudly at the head table beside her husband and responded prettily to all of the toasts. Proudly, she took the floor with him, her long train looped gracefully over her arm.

Breathlessly, she allowed a bevy of maids to assist her into her going-away clothes. Joyfully, she threw the wedding bouquet as far away from Marigold as possible. It was caught by their governess, Miss Higgins, who turned quite pink with delight.

And then . . . and then . . . they were in
his
carriage, going to
his
town house in St. James’s Square.

And it was all over.

She had been revenged on Marigold for all those years of humiliation. She had had her day of triumph.

Now what?

There was a coachman on the box and two splendid footmen on the backstrap. Barton, the maid, had been assigned to her as her very own.

But soon the coach would stop and the coachman would take the gaily decorated carriage round to the mews. The footmen would help her down and open the doors, and then they, too, would go away.

Barton would prepare her mistress for bed and then she would leave.

And Annie would be alone with her husband.

All at once it burst over her head, the folly of what she had done.

The wedding night!

What was she supposed to do? What would he do—to her?

He ushered her into a pleasant, book-lined room on the ground floor of his house. “It’s all very masculine,” he said. “But you can make any changes you want.”

The room smelled of leather and tobacco. The evening had turned chilly and a fire had been lit in the grate. There were pictures of horses and rather dark landscapes in heavy, gilt frames ornamenting the walls. The furniture was a harmonious mixture of periods. There was a Boulle writing table in one corner, and in another a pretty little bureau bordered with crushed mica by Pierre Golle. There were window seats by Chippendale and four Louis XV armchairs. Electricity had not been installed yet and the soft glow of two large oil lamps illuminated the room.

“Well,” said Annie brightly. “Here we are.”

“Yes,” he echoed. “Here we are. Do you wish anything to eat?”

“No,” said Annie. “I think I ate enough at the—the . . . reception.”

“In that case, my love . . .”

“But I would like something to drink.”

“Very well.” He touched the bell and then murmured something to the butler.

“Now, Annie,” he said, walking toward her. Annie held on to the chair back for support.

“Your servants will—will . . . enter at any moment, Jas-Jasper, and we should not . . . I mean . . .”

“Quite,” he said equably. “Why don’t you sit down? You look as if you’re about to face a firing squad.

Or would you like to retire to your room and freshen up? Yes, why don’t you do that, and I will have the champagne sent upstairs.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Annie, overwhelmed with relief. She never thought that he meant to join her.

Her new quarters were spacious and elegant, and showed all the signs of having been recently decorated. There was a sitting room and a bedroom, in feminine shades of rose.

The large wardrobe in the bedroom held only her dresses and coats, and the two chests of drawers were full with the rest of her trousseau, which had been brought round earlier in the day and unpacked by Barton.

Annie’s fear slowly left her. There was no sign of any masculine occupation. These were her rooms. He obviously planned to sleep in a suite of his own.

The bed was pretty and very French-looking, with its white-painted cane back and canopy of white lace. It was also very large.

Annie sat by the fire in the sitting room—what luxury to have a fire in summer!—and turned over the weighty responsibilities of marriage in her mind. She would be expected to produce an heir, although she had not the slightest idea of how that was to be achieved. Then she must see the housekeeper when they returned from Paris and go over the books.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door. Her husband entered carrying a tray with a bottle of champagne and two tall, thin crystal glasses.

Annie fought down the fears that were rising up in her again, telling herself that he
was
her husband and that it was natural he should join her in her sitting room.

He sat down opposite her and poured the champagne. Annie had already drunk quite a great deal of wine that day, what with all the toasts, but she realized that her mouth was dry and she was very thirsty indeed. She drained her glass in one gulp and held it out to be refilled.

“I’m nervous as well,” said the marquess, in a gentle voice that she had never heard him use before. “I haven’t been married before.”

He then went on to talk about the wedding reception, who was who on his side of the family and what they did, interspersing all the facts with amusing anecdotes that were so ridiculous that Annie was sure they were fictitious.

Somehow, during all this, they had succeeded in not only drinking the one bottle of champagne but also another that he had rang for while he was talking.

Annie was not aware that she had drunk most of it; she was only aware that she was feeling hazy and lazy and relaxed, and everything he said began to seem exquisitely funny.

And somehow it all seemed natural when he gently took her glass from her hand and said, “Bed.”

He stood up, drawing her up with him, pulling her into his arms. He bent his head and kissed her full on the mouth for the first time, his mouth gently pressing and exploring, his long fingers cradling her face.

At first she stayed immobile, her mouth tightly closed under his own. But a delightful, warm sort of prickly feeling like goose flesh began to run over her skin, and the pleasurable feel of his mouth on hers made her part her lips and kiss him back, her arms winding about his neck.

He swept her off her feet and carried her easily through to the bedroom, laying her down on the bed, his nimble, experienced fingers beginning to work loose the intricate fastenings of her dress.

Had she not drunk so much, had she not felt so cold and lost when he stopped caressing her, then she would surely have felt shocked. But with each new caress, her body seemed to scream for more, and when at last she was naked and he drew away to remove his own clothes, she could hardly wait for him to take her in his arms again.

He covered one small, rounded, firm breast with his hand, and Annie groaned against his lips. His body was hard and muscled, surprisingly so in so languid and lazy a man. He seemed to have muscles in the most unexpected places, Annie thought in a lucid moment before she went down under another wave of passion.

He paused, propping himself up on one elbow and looking down into her face, his eyes very blue and searching. Annie dreamily thought that he had never looked as handsome. His crisp black hair framed his tanned face. His eyelids were curved, giving his face a look of amused mockery. His nose was straight.

His mouth strong and beautifully shaped. The strong column of his neck rose from a broad, powerful chest.

One hand languorously stroked the length of her back, then firmly clasped itself round one of her firm, rounded buttocks.

“Will we have a baby?” whispered Annie.

“Oh, I should think so,” he said tenderly. “Lots and lots of little Jaspers.”

Suddenly, all of the champagne she had drunk seemed to mount to Annie’s brain in a rush and she giggled tipsily. “I’ve just
got
to have a baby before Marigold. Imagine going through all this just to get revenge and then finding she somehow managed to get married and produce an heir to the Crammarth fortune before me.”

As she looked into his face, she was reminded of the shadow of the cloud passing over the shining waters of the Serpentine on that first drive with him. It was almost as if he had
dressed
his face, had covered it in some way, so that all of the laughing tenderness was gone, leaving only the familiar, lazy mockery.

“Such a pity we can’t have that honeymoon in Paris after all,” he said.

“Why?” Annie’s mind fought to rise above the mists of alcohol.

“Oh, I have things to do in town. And now, good night, Annie.”

Numbly she lay and watched him swing his legs out of bed, rise, and get dressed.

“You had better pull the covers over you or you’ll catch cold,” he said.

He said, “If I do not see you at breakfast, use any of my carriages you wish.”

He said, “There is money in the desk in my study. Take as much as you like and buy yourself something.”

He said, “And why don’t you call on Marigold in case her jealousy has reached a low ebb.”

And then the door closed behind him.

Annie fought with drunkenness, with sleep.

She had said something terribly, terribly wrong.

But, for the life of her, she couldn’t remember what it was.

* * *

Nothing had gone right since that wedding night, and yet, in a way, nothing had changed. It seemed to Annie that she was still a child being directed about what she should do by adults, one of the adults now being her husband.

She had been instructed on how to write checks and had been given permission to draw as much money from the bank as she wanted. The house in St. James’s Square was terrifyingly well run, and the servants seemed to be in no need of supervision. The marquess had shown no inclination to take his new bride to his country estate, Frileton House. He escorted her to a few social engagements and left her almost as soon as they entered the room. He had then driven her to his parents’ estate in his new motorcar, and there he had left her. Annie had endured the torments of loneliness and boredom since the duke and duchess hardly ever entertained.

Annie’s parents had gone back to Scotland. Marigold had never once called since Annie’s marriage, which was the only blessing Annie could think of.

And then one day while Annie was languishing at her inlaws, a letter from Marigold arrived. It was short but far from sweet. It reminded Annie that it was more than likely that the marquess had married her for her money. It instructed her to please see the enclosed cutting.

The cutting was from a Paris newspaper. Annie’s French was very good although she did not need all that much knowledge of the language to read the caption under the photograph. The picture showed Jasper strolling down a boulevard with a pretty, little blonde on his arm. Annie easily recognized her as the blonde who had winked at him in the park. The caption said coyly that the Marquess of T——, an English milord, who had only recently been married to a certain Lady A., was holidaying in Paris with that well-known English beauty, Miss S.

Now Annie could hardly remember anything of her wedding night except those marvelous, heady caresses that had inexplicably ceased so suddenly.

So she burned with humiliation. How Marigold must be crowing!

Two days of crying and despair passed, and then Annie became very angry indeed. Slowly she began to plan what to do. She decided to follow her first instinct, which was to get as far away from her in-laws as possible. He would not find her meekly waiting for him if he decided to return.

She told the duke and duchess that she was leaving for London immediately and asked Barton to pack her bags. Annie did not plan to stay in London above a day. For London still held Marigold. Although the Season was over and Marigold had gained many admirers but no proposals that she wanted to accept, she had decided to stay on with Aunt Agatha rather than to follow society north to Scotland for the opening of the grouse season.

The marquess’s butler had recommended the seaside resort of Britlingsea as being “most exclusive”