Provocative in Pearls (23 page)

“You do not have to leave, if you do not want to.” She sounded half-asleep. “Unless it is a rule that I was never told, that is.”

It wasn’t a rule, but it might be wise to go. Maintaining a few formalities was not a bad thing with a woman. However, she had said she did not want to be alone with the ghosts, and perhaps they still lurked on the edges of her dreams.

He decided that he would stay this once. For her sake.

O
nce more Hawkeswell found himself following a carriage on horseback in the rain. The journey to Shropshire had turned into more of a drama than he expected.

Colleen was to blame. Upon hearing from Verity that the journey was planned—a journey that Hawkeswell had not yet agreed to when Verity revealed the news to his cousin—Colleen asked to join them. She had not seen their mothers’ cousin Mrs. Geraldson, who lived near Birmingham, for two years, and accompanying Verity would also hit three more targets with one ball. Colleen could leave London’s late-summer heat and stench, enjoy good company while touring the countryside, and avoid returning to her mother for at least a fortnight. The last point won Hawkeswell’s reluctant agreement.

If Colleen came, so did Colleen’s lady’s maid. Both servants now rode with their mistresses in the baggage-laden carriage.

He spent most of the time enjoying the country, which still left a good deal to contemplate the lessons he was learning about marriage. Foremost was that, while Verity might not be the sort to cajole jewels out of her husband when pleasure had turned him weak with her, any request not immediately refused would be assumed to be granted.
We will talk about this tomorrow
only announced defeat.

The rain proved light and fleeting, and the clouds broke in the sky ahead. They would reach their destination soon. Mrs. Geraldson had insisted they all stay with her, and since her property was an hour’s carriage ride to Oldbury, he had agreed.

He may be allowing Verity this visit, but he did not like the idea of her taking lodgings too near the ironworks. An hour away seemed a good way to maintain a variety of necessary distances.

Mrs. Geraldson lived right across the Staffordshire county border. Hawkeswell already knew her to be a plain-speaking lady of middle years who relished her quiet life in the country. Her property was of good size, with airy apartments and several outbuildings, and Verity and Hawkeswell were given the best chambers. Their quarters were not luxurious, but more than adequate.

Once settled, they joined their hostess for light refreshment. Along with Colleen, they sat in a pleasant and feminine drawing room drinking punch and eating tiny cakes.

“I am honored to have you as guests, Lord Hawkeswell, Lady Hawkeswell.” Mrs. Geraldson smiled indulgently at Verity. “Perhaps I can be forgiven for a lack of modesty if I claim some small part in your happiness. One never knows the power of a simple letter, and how it can initiate a serendipitous series of events.”

“Hermione is referring to the letter of introduction that she gave the Thompsons when they came to London for their first extended visit,” Colleen explained when she saw Verity’s confusion. “Although I had known Mr. Thompson from when I visited here as a girl, her letter reintroduced us.”

“You know my cousin?” Verity asked Mrs. Geraldson.

“I should hope that I know any person of consequence near Birmingham.”

She had known Verity’s father too, it turned out. She even had news about the ironworks.

“Trouble is brewing there, it is said. Well, it is brewing everywhere these days, isn’t it? All these radicals and demonstrations. Lord Cleobury says there are secret revolutionary committees everywhere. One does not feel safe to go out in one’s carriage, for fear of assault by those who the natural order decreed should have only wagons and carts.”

“Has there been actual violence?” Hawkeswell asked. “Have there been recent assaults such as you describe? We have heard nothing of this in London.”

“It is only a matter of time, after what happened in Derbyshire last summer and Manchester in the spring. Mr. Albrighton is doing his best to keep an eye on things, but he is only one man.”

“Albrighton?” Hawkeswell asked. “That would not be Jonathan Albrighton? If so, I did not realize he had property here, or that he was even back in England.”

“That is indeed his name, Lord Hawkeswell. Do you know him? He received a legacy from a relative, and has taken residence in Losford Hall.”

The revelation fascinated Hawkeswell. “I will go visit him tomorrow. It has been at least five years since we spoke.”

“How has Mr. Albrighton been keeping an eye on matters?” Verity asked. “Does he warn men off? Send them out of the county?”

“With so many counties bordering each other here, that would do little good. They could hop right back, couldn’t they? Lord Cleobury fears that the close county borders breed trouble all by themselves, and that rebellion will begin right here. He has brought cannon to his property. They are lined up on the terrace, in preparation for an attack.”

“I doubt there will be open rebellion,” Hawkeswell said. “People are angry and restless; that is true. The end of the war has brought hardships. Most of the demonstrations express that discontent, not treasonous beliefs.”

“I fear that you think too kindly and that Lord Cleobury is correct. They will never be satisfied until they have destroyed all that is good,” Colleen said. “A firm response is required. The army must be used, as it was with Brandreth and his rabble.”

“If you had experienced that treason almost in your garden, Lord Hawkeswell, you would understand the concerns of decent people up here,” Mrs. Geraldson said.

“People only want to be able to feed their families,” Verity said. “It is in everyone’s interest to help them do so.”

Mrs. Geraldson was not accustomed to disagreement. “Your own family feels differently. Mr. Thompson has informed all his workers that if they participate in such seditious activity, they will be put out of his mill and out of their cottages. He did not hesitate to call up the yeomanry last winter when some men were talking trouble there.”

“I cannot speak for my cousin. However, my father would have never forbidden men to speak their minds, to him or anyone else. We are a free people, are we not?”

“Indeed we are,” Hawkeswell said. He saw a row coming. A change of subject was in order. “Tell me, Mrs. Geraldson, what news is there of my other relatives in these parts? I confess that I have never met some of my mother’s people. Are there many in the county?”

“There are more in Derbyshire.”

Talk moved on to a long report on cousins many times removed. While Hawkeswell distracted their hostess from talk about rebellions, he suspected that Verity worried about Mrs. Geraldson’s revelations about Bertram and the ironworks.

 

 

T
he next morning, Verity dressed early in a carriage ensemble. She was breaking her fast when Hawkeswell entered the breakfast room. He eyed her garments, parasol, and reticule while he ate and chatted with Mrs. Geraldson.

“Are you going somewhere?” he asked, when their hostess excused herself.

She assumed a casual, airy tone and hoped that would help. “I intend to call for the carriage and visit Oldbury.”

“Not on your own, you are not.”

“You spoke of visiting Mr. Albrighton today, so I must go on my own. I will return by afternoon, and will take great care with my safety.”

He got that look on his face. The one that said he was trying hard to be reasonable. Only his idea of being reasonable usually meant he expected her to agree with his reason, and relinquish her own, after he stated his opinion a few times.

“Verity—”

“It is why I am here. I will be unable to sit still, let alone play the part of a polite guest.” She lifted her parasol and reticule to emphasize her resolve.

“Put those down. You are not going anywhere if I do not allow it. The coachman will never disobey me, even if you will.”

“My home is mere miles away. Why allow me to come this far if you will deny me now?”

“I am not denying you anything, except dangerous independence. This may not be Manchester, but you heard Mrs. Geraldson describe the mood abroad here. It is not safe.”

She wanted to tell him that Joshua Thompson’s daughter would always be safe at the ironworks. Only she was not sure that was still true. She might not be seen as Joshua’s daughter, but as Bertram’s cousin and a peer’s wife.

She set down her reticule. “I knew we would not suit.”

His expression firmed and his gaze pierced her. “Do we not? No decent man would act differently. Would you prefer I proved indifferent to your safety?”

No, she realized. She would find that disheartening. But she had lived independently for two years and did not like being forced by another to set aside her plans, either on a whim or for reasons fair. She did not like being expected to obey even if she disagreed with the command.

“Perhaps it is not you and I that do not suit, but marriage and I,” she said. “I would be vexed by any husband’s interference.”

“You will have to learn to live with that. Since we are married and I am your husband. Now, come here.”

He was angry. An old, ugly fear spiraled through her, wanting to take hold. She scolded herself that to react thus was stupid. This man had never been cruel, or lost hold of his anger in her presence. Still, that visceral sensation from the past stirred, and she hesitated before she walked around the table to him.

He pushed back his chair and patted his lap. “Sit.”

She lowered herself until she perched on his lap.

“Now kiss me the way you did the night I stayed with you, the way you did right after you screamed from pleasure into the night.”

Her face burned. She glanced over her shoulder, to see if anyone might see.

She was not even sure that she knew what he meant. She touched her lips to his, and as she did she remembered that kiss, so much the result of intense sensations crashing through her. She was not sure that she could kiss like that while sitting in a breakfast room.

She tried, however. She met his mouth more boldly, and did what he did to her with her tongue and her teeth. Her body responded when he accepted and took and finally gave in return in a flurry of mutual, hungry kisses.

She forced herself to stop, because the door might open at any moment. She wondered if she appeared as flushed and aroused as she felt.

“Now, ask me to accompany you to Oldbury today, so you will have protection and help if you find trouble.”

She swallowed the prideful impulse to refuse. “I should very much like to go to Oldbury today. Will you take me there?”

He bared his teeth slightly, and closed them gently on her finger. A brief, intense, feral heat entered his eyes. She could not look away. In his gaze she found the vivid memory of that night, of him moving so deeply into her body and of her going wild from the sensation of being filled so fully.

He set her on her feet and stood. “I will call for the carriage, and see Albrighton another day if necessary.”

“Thank you,” she said, too aroused for comfort.

He lifted her chin and kissed her. “See? We suit very well, Verity.”

 

 

I
t always surprised Hawkeswell that most industrial sites appeared very rustic. Almost agricultural. The ironworks a mile outside Oldbury, in an isolated, disconnected bit of Shropshire wholly circled by other counties, were no different.

The buildings were made of brick and local stone. They sat on the property much as outbuildings did on farms, with trees and bushes, greenery, and even a few wildflowers scattered between them. In the distance, perhaps three hundred yards away, a stone house could be seen on a low hill, its side facing the works and its size indicating the owner or manager lived here.

A community had grown up north of the works, with a good number of cottages. A broad stream ran along its edge, pouring toward the ironworks where a dam controlled its flow before it turned the big wheel of the tilting hammer.

Home, Verity called this. He had not realized just what she meant. She had grown up in that house up there, with the furnace and forges all but in her garden. He pictured her running down the hill, to join the workers’ children in play.

“Do you want to go to the house?” he asked. “The Thompsons had not yet left London when we departed, so I do not think they are here now. The housekeeper would let you in.”

She gave the house a good look. “I do not need to go to the house. Nothing of him remains there for me. He is still here, however, in the forges and furnaces.” She pointed to the stream. “He drowned in that. It is hard to believe it became a rushing river that spring. He was helping the workers save their homes when he was swept away.”

She strolled down the hard-packed dirt that served as the street. Every eye she passed followed her and the gentleman by her side. At the end, beyond most of the buildings, they came upon tracks set in the ground.

“The iron is brought to the canal by special wagons that run on this track,” she explained. “It is not far. There are not many ironworks like this one. Everything is done here, from beginning to end. Raw ore comes in, and split rods and castings and wrought iron leave.”

A more modest house, but still of good size, stood down here at the other end of the works. “That is Mr. Travis’s house. He will not be there now. He should be in the boring house.”

He followed her while she retraced her steps to a low building with few windows. No one entered or left as they approached, and no smoke came from its chimney.

Six men worked lathes inside, fitting thick iron rods on clamps and feeding them to the tool that ate their interiors. Work stopped when Verity entered. Suspicion and silence slowly gave way to shocked stares.