Lady Dearing's Masquerade (13 page)

Jeremy responded absently to Debenham’s questions. As Lady Dearing continued to play with the infant, oblivious to his hungry gaze, moisture gleamed under her lashes. Suddenly she bent down to kiss the infant’s downy head. When she straightened, her lips trembled.

He was enthralled.

He wrenched his gaze away. When he dared to look at her again he saw a look of strain on her face. It sobered him, reminding him that despite his growing conviction that she was a steadfast, loving woman, wronged by society, there was so much he did not know about her: why she hid behind a sordid reputation she showed no desire to repair, why she did not seem to trust him. Ominous questions when his emotions toward her swung between jealousy and tenderness.

And since she showed not the faintest hint of returning his interest, how could he hope to find answers?

* * *

Rosebuds surrounded him.

They hung in swags above him, trellised on the walls, swooping and draping from arches, rising from shrubs thickly planted within neat boxwood borders, underplanted with lavender and violets. He could only imagine how it would all look and smell in less than a month.

It was not likely he’d be there to see it.

For all was going according to plan, except for his wretched blunder earlier. Lady Dearing had caught him looking at her like a starving man; nothing else could explain the strained look in her eyes ever since the Debenhams had taken their leave.

He had to make it right somehow.

He looked down at Ben, who was supposed to be giving him a tour of the gardens before commencing his assigned tasks there. The boy stared back, his fawnlike eyes wide and anxious.

Damn. He’d been frowning. He was scaring everyone now.

“I’m sorry, Ben,” he said, forcing a smile. “I was looking at all these roses and wishing I could be here when they blow.”

“You—you won’t come back then, s-s-sir?”

He couldn’t even tell which Ben wanted.

“I wish I could,” he replied quietly. “But I have an estate to manage in Hampshire and much work to do on behalf of the Foundling Hospital.”

“W-would you like to see the flower garden now? There’s m-more there.”

“I would.”

At least the lad was making an effort to speak to him, Jeremy reflected, as Ben conducted him slowly through the extensive gardens, surrounded by an immense brick wall and divided into neat rectangles by hedges of yew and sweet-smelling hawthorn. From the rose garden they proceeded to a flower garden, where a fine plane tree with a circular seat beneath it provided shade from which to view informally laid out beds presently bright with tulips. The next enclosure contained strawberry beds and raspberry canes, all in bloom, and a vast array of fragrant herbs; the next devoted to vegetables and hotbeds.

The sun beat down as they wended their way to the final double-sized enclosure devoted to fruit trees. There Ben introduced Jeremy to Furzeley, the head gardener, who gave Jeremy the same appraising scrutiny he’d received from all of Lady Dearing’s elderly servants.

“Has our Ben been showing ye the gardens, Sir Jeremy?” Furzeley’s eyes were bright in his lined, brown face.

Jeremy nodded. “I am most impressed with his knowledge.”

“Aye, he’s a likely lad,” replied the gardener with a fond look at the boy.

Ben looked shyly pleased.

As Furzeley gave Ben his orders for the day, Jeremy gazed around at the long rows of espaliered trees, their shapes somehow both tormented and graceful. More fruit trees were pinned against the southern wall to receive the sun and yield up their fruits. In one corner stood a long brick building, which he guessed housed tools and gardening supplies.

A few minutes later he stood by Ben near one of the wall trees. The boy carefully examined the branches and began to cut off small shoots with a small, sharp knife.

“Can you explain what you are doing, Ben?”

“You have to n-n-nip off the bits that are growing the wrong way. It keeps the strength in the b-branches that will bear this year and next.”

They moved to the next tree. The sun warming his back, Jeremy watched Ben work, impressed by the boy’s intent examination of the shoots, the sure skill in his hands.

“What sort of tree is this?”

“P-peach,” said Ben, looking up briefly. When Jeremy nodded his encouragement, the boy continued. “It’s—it’s a—D-double Montagne. They’re some of the best, but the French Mignonnes are good, too.”

“What other fruits are grown here?” Jeremy asked, careful not to appear conscious of the increasing flow of Ben’s words.

Ben waved toward the rows of espaliers. “Apples and pears. They’re the hardier ones. Along the wall we have peaches, apricots and plums. They like it where it’s sunny and warm.”

“You’ve learned a lot from Furzeley. I am impressed.”

The boy reddened a little but looked pleased.

“It would be foolish to remove a plant from a place where it is thriving, wouldn’t it?”

“Yessir.” Ben stiffened and gave him a wary sidelong glance as he moved to the next tree.

“I know you do not wish to speak of this, but we must. Setting a fire in a corridor of the Hospital was very wrong. But Lady Dearing told me why you did it, and I believe her.”

“I d-d-didn’t hurt anyone.” Ben stopped his trimming and stared sullenly at the ground.

“I know. I’ve been told you set the fire in a metal pail from which it was unlikely to spread.”

Ben shot him another wary glance, then fixed his gaze on the roots of the next tree.

“You were angry, weren’t you?”

Ben shifted his feet uncomfortably.

“I was an angry boy once.” Jeremy laid a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “The first time I visited my cousin I gave him a black eye.”

Ben went very still.

“Yes. My cousin Tom and I are the best of friends now. But there was a time I was so angry that I thought I hated him, because he had everything I wished for. We made up, and in time I learned better ways to release my anger.”

“What ways, sir?” Ben lowered his pruning knife and stared up at Jeremy.

“Physical exertion helps. I used to run as fast as I could until the mood passed. Now I walk or ride when I’m out of temper. I imagine gardening does the same for you, doesn’t it?”

Ben nodded slowly. “I like seeing things grow, too. Nothing stays the same in a garden.”

The boy’s eyes glowed up at him with budding admiration. Jeremy found himself wishing he could return to Rosemead for regular visits, if only to help the lad. But it was not possible, of course. All risk of scandal aside, he could not force himself where he was not wanted. He might never come to know the woman who had achieved so much with Ben and the others.
Livvy.

He longed to call her by that name. It was not likely he’d get the chance.

“We’re done here, sir,” said Ben.

“On to the next task, then,” he replied, hoping the boy hadn’t sensed his restless mood.

Jeremy followed Ben into the toolhouse and stood by the long potting table in the center while Ben exchanged his pruning shears for a short, pronged hoe.

“What are we doing next?” he asked.

“The turnips need hoeing, sir.”

“Then find me a hoe. I’m going to help you.”

Jeremy could not explain it to Ben, but hard work might help to assuage other feelings besides anger.

* * *

Livvy stared down from her bedchamber, riveted by the sight of Sir Jeremy hoeing the turnip beds beside Ben. She couldn’t doubt that they were dealing well together now. There was no excuse to keep watching. But she couldn’t pull away either.

Sir Jeremy had removed his coat and hung it up from a nearby stake used to support beans. No dandy, Sir Jeremy! She smiled, remembering the hedgehog incident and a few others like it during the past weeks. Weeks she’d spent caught between guilt and joy, laughter and tears, watching him earn the children’s trust while she continued to deceive him.

He stretched, then removed his waistcoat and hung it over his coat. Well, it
was
unseasonably warm, excusing what some would consider a moderate impropriety. Livvy fanned herself with her hand, continuing to stare, knowing she should not, as he pulled the cravat from around his neck and then unbuttoned the top buttons of his fine white shirt. Even at a distance she could plainly see a triangle of skin revealed at his throat, the breadth of his shoulders, the shape of his legs in their snug breeches.

And desire, her old enemy, had her in its grip.

She turned from the window and paced about the large, airy room, trying to banish thoughts of him. Catching sight of her reflection in the mirror, she paused and stared as she had not in a long time. Her face was still unlined, her complexion still bright. Her figure . . . it was still just as Walter had first admired and then despised. For a while she’d even seen herself as he had: all false curves, a mockery of a woman with round hips that would never support a babe, bountiful breasts that would never be suckled. Now men ogled those same charms but thought her barrenness made her the most desirable of mistresses.

But she had come to see her body for what it was. Pleasing in its own way.

For a moment she wondered what Sir Jeremy saw, then a lump came to her throat as she remembered how he had watched her playing with Annabel. But it was foolish to dwell on it. He was doing his best to hide his attraction from her; her own wisest course was to pretend not to notice.

Impatiently, she turned from the mirror. She ought to go down to the schoolroom, but like a moth to a flame she returned to the window. Sir Jeremy was still hard at work, and she drank in the sight of him flexing and bending and laboring in shirtsleeves and closely fitted breeches. How could she find the sight of a powerful man’s body so arousing? It was insane.

But she did.

She hugged herself. She tried not to think of his slow kiss, his big gentle hands. She turned to study the familiar pattern of exotic birds and vines she’d painted herself on the pale turquoise moiré wallpaper, the mismatched but beloved furniture, some of it simple pieces original to the house, others bits of inlaid and carved chinoiserie she’d bought on a whim in London. This was her bower, the sanctuary she had made for herself after Walter’s death.

And there was her bed, large and comfortable, draped in silk a few shades darker than the walls, where she slept peacefully, safe from intrusion. Safe and alone.

To think of anything else was madness.

* * *

Gulls wheeled and cried. Livvy sat looking out of the window of her bedchamber, focusing on the birds’ free flight in the sky, their wild cries. Breathing the salt-tanged air of Brighton that flowed through the window and fluttered her nightdress.

Her stomach gurgled and she tried to ignore it. Dr. Croft’s instructions were precise, and she would have followed them religiously even had Walter not watched her like a hawk through every meal.

Plethora. Excessive fullness. That was what she suffered from, what kept them from conceiving during two years of marriage. Sea bathing, the lowering diet, and today, her first bloodletting, were the suggested remedies.

She would try anything. She wanted a baby, and Walter wanted an heir so badly. It would please him so much.

Her stomach gurgled again. Fullness! She’d rarely felt so empty. Perhaps it was the bloodletting that caused her spirits to droop.

She started as the floor across the room creaked. She knew those heavy footfalls. She got up, forcing a welcoming smile to her lips.

Walter stood watching her for a moment, still fully dressed. He’d missed dinner again; perhaps he had been walking on the seafront. His face was wind-roughened, his expression anxious. Vulnerable.

“How went the . . . bloodletting?” he asked, his eyes everywhere but the bandage on her arm.

“It was not as bad as I feared.” Indeed, she’d suffered worse. This was worthwhile pain, if only it was successful.

“Good,” he boomed, and crossed the room to take her in his arms, more gently than usual.

He’d been so solicitous for her health lately, almost tender. Perhaps the air of Brighton agreed with him. Perhaps he was remembering the affection he’d once shown her.

“I think I’d forgotten how beautiful you are,” he murmured.

She gave him a shaky smile.

He pulled down the nightdress she’d left intentionally loose and cupped one breast in his hand, then pinched the nipple. Out of long habit she turned her flinch into a gasp that might be mistaken for pleasure.

“Ah, you like that.”

She nodded, lowering her face. She didn’t dare bruise his pride, and it was far too easily done.

He manhandled her breast for a moment or so, then lowered his mouth to kiss her. She kissed him back to encourage him, though she nearly gagged at the familiar taste of brandy. He seemed to need it to gain courage for the assault on her fertility.

No, there would be no tenderness tonight.

He pushed her toward the bed. Obediently she climbed onto it. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him unbuttoning his breeches. Pray God they conceived this time. A baby would be a comfort. A relief, for it might end these indignities.

He lowered himself onto her. She parted her legs and willed herself to relax as he impaled her.

He needed this baby, too. They both did.

So she put her arms around him, sensing his desperation. Patiently, she endured the discomfort as he strained and grunted, moving in time with him to speed his climax, reminding herself to breathe lightly when he collapsed on top of her.

A few minutes later, he rolled over and cursed.

She felt the wetness, saw the bed marred with blood. Her woman’s blood. Her courses. Almost a week early.

“Damn it all!”

She cringed as he pushed himself off the bed.

Not looking at her, he refastened his breeches. Seeing the angry tension in his frame, the jerkiness of his movements, she lay deathly still. To speak or move was to risk a virulent tongue-lashing. Lately she’d begun to imagine worse.