Chapter 5
Five
Her king asked the concubine if someone could join them in their bed.
“Only if he has an enormous tal penis cock phallus,” she said, hiding the roil of her jealous rage behind a sweetly false smile.
“He does,” her king said and opened the door to allow his favorite hound into the bedchamber.
— The Concubine and Her King. Unpublished MS.
The butler met Henry at the front door of Sutton Hall. “My lord, Sir John is in his study, Lady D’Oyly is resting, and Miss D’Oyly and Miss Charlotte D’Oyly are in the drawing room with Miss Gulliver, a neighbor.”
In the four days Henry had been a guest at Sutton Hall, Sir John D’Oyly had spent almost all of his waking hours in his study, preparing his answer to the marchioness. As a result, Henry had often found himself in the company of Lady D’Oyly and the baronet’s two daughters.
Very quickly, Henry came to suspect the D’Oyly daughters were the real reason his aunt had chosen him to carry her letter. There had to be more fitting messengers than Henry, but two birds, one stone. A message delivered and a match made, all in one blow.
Damn the woman. Why couldn’t Lady Chalfont do things in a straightforward manner?
When Henry had asked for her help, he had forgotten her fondness for complications and machinations.
It was almost as if the marchioness wouldn’t undertake a thing unless she could set thousands of cogwheels and levers and trundles into motion.
But the Earl of Ashthorpe was no cog.
Emma and Charlotte were perfectly pleasant young ladies.
Henry didn’t know their ages—how was one to tell a twenty-year-old woman from a thirty-year-old woman?
—but Emma was the elder of the two sisters and probably the one intended for him.
She’d had several Seasons, and, despite not having found a husband, she had not become embittered.
She played the pianoforte beautifully and was clever at whist. Her mother deferred to her in household matters. She claimed a fondness for reading.
Emma and Mina would have that in common.
In fact, Emma had far more in common with Mina than with Henry. She was certainly closer to his granddaughter’s age than she was to his. He was nothing but a dried-up husk next to Emma’s pretty freshness. He felt himself a creaky codger, and that feeling turned him surly.
Henry was not a jovial or social man, but he had thought himself capable of sustaining a polite conversation, paying a compliment, respecting the delicate sentiments of the fair sex.
He wasn’t.
Emma did not act injured when he lost sight of what it meant to be a good guest, when he brooded or went silent. She spoke calmly and then turned her attention to someone or something else until he recovered himself.
She’d manage him very well. But Henry did not want managing.
He wanted his countess to manage Mina’s introduction to society, that was all, and Emma was a country girl, the daughter of a baronet.
In a dozen years, Mina would need a grandmother with the social power of, say, the daughter of a duke, a widow of a marquess, an Almack’s patroness-in-the-making.
Why the hell hadn’t Lady Chalfont thought to send Henry to Middlewich instead?
There were ducal daughters in abundance there.
And he felt no urge towards Emma, no heating of his loins. That was irrelevant, he had already decided that was irrelevant, but he could never marry a woman who felt more like a daughter than a wife. The idea of it made him sick at the stomach.
Until this morning, he’d thought the lack of attraction was a sign of his age. His cock was worn-out, like his knees. Except the knees were stiff and the cock was not. But Miss Beasley had made him realize there was nothing wrong with the blood flow to his member.
Yes, there was nothing wrong with his cock, and there was nothing wrong with his curiosity either. On his ride back to Sutton Hall, Henry had developed an intense curiosity about what his enchantress might say or do, in his bed or out of it.
So there, Aunt. Deficiency be damned.
He had thought the marchioness infallible, but she wasn’t.
Lady Chalfont was mistaken not only about his lack of curiosity but also in this first clumsy attempt to find a wife for him.
Henry must emphasize to her that he sought a mature spouse of high rank.
A widow would be ideal. He thought he had been perfectly clear in his letter, but he’d write another one to her today and lay it out even more plainly.
First, he’d have a wash and change his clothes.
And, after that, he’d make an appearance in the drawing room.
The neighbor had likely paid a call to get a look at him, and giving this Miss Gulliver the thrill of meeting an earl was a small favor he could do for Emma since he wouldn’t be marrying her.
No matter what the marchioness or Emma’s meddlesome mother hoped for.
He passed the drawing room on his way to the stairs. He could stop in and perform his duty now rather than later. He’d like to have it done with.
The door was slightly ajar.
“You shouldn’t repeat such things.” Emma’s voice.
Henry froze, his hand just an inch from the knob.
A different young woman’s voice. “But it’s true. My father says his wife gave him dozens of horns.”
Not Emma or Charlotte. It must be the neighbor. Henry was not meant to hear this. He should go, but he couldn’t move.
“Horns?” asked Charlotte. Her voice was a good deal higher than Emma’s.
“Hush.” That was from Emma.
“But I want to know about the horns,” Charlotte said.
“It means she cuckolded him. She took ever so many lovers and flaunted them all over London,” said the neighbor.
A rustle. Someone was standing up or moving. Emma’s voice. “We will talk of something else, Ida, or you will leave this house.”
Henry finally stepped away from the door as quietly as he could and went up the stairs.
Diana’s adultery was an old wound. Maybe not completely healed, maybe not painless, but it had scarred over, and mere gossip could not open it up again.
Henry knew happiness now because of Mina, and he meant to keep it. He’d had a magical morning in Tommy Treadwell land. He’d met a beguiling woman. Diana had ruined so much in his life, but she was dead, and he would not let her ruin this day or what remained of his days on earth.
He washed up and changed his clothes with the assistance of his valet and went back down the stairs, making his footfalls heavy. He wanted the women to know he was coming so he would not embarrass them.
But the drawing room was empty. He turned at the doorway and almost bumped into his girlish champion.
“Pardon, Miss D’Oyly.” He stepped back and bowed. “I was just coming to meet your caller.”
Emma’s cheeks were a trifle pink. “She had to leave unexpectedly, my lord. But you must be hungry after your long ride, so I’ve asked that a late luncheon be laid for you in the dining room.”
“Thank you. My horse lost a shoe.”
Emma then wanted to know more about the lost shoe. What were the circumstances? He had taken the horse to the farrier in Much Wemby? Very good. And what had the farrier said about the lost shoe? Was it the fault of someone here at Sutton Hall? She did not mean to be so inquisitive—
“But you take an interest in the house and the estate, including the stables,” Henry said.
As well she should. Sir John thought nothing of absenting himself for days on end, and Lady D’Oyly seemed incapable of the many decisions a household required, only wanting to push Henry and Emma together at every opportunity.
He reassured Emma that the farrier had said no such thing. In truth, he thought to himself as he ate his veal chop, the farrier had said almost nothing except the surprising fact about his father writing a book.
Henry was just finishing his solitary meal and about to rise from the table when Sir John rushed into the dining room.
He was portly man, some years older than Henry, and Henry had thought him rather sedate and bookish. But now Sir John was hopping up and down, almost dancing with excitement.
“I’ve done it. I’ve done it!” he cried. “You can be on your way tomorrow, Lord Ashthorpe!”
Sir John threw himself into a chair, and Henry resumed his own seat. The butler removed a cover from a plate and brought it to Sir John.
“I’m ravenous, I declare,” Sir John said and attacked his food with zeal.
Henry waited to speak until Sir John had swallowed. “You have finished your answer to Lady Chalfont.”
“Yes, and it’s a topper. A real topper. She’ll be—” Sir John stopped, busied himself with loading his fork. “Lady Chalfont will be most interested in my reply.”
Henry would leave tomorrow. Good. He missed Mina. They had not been apart for more than a few days since she’d come to live with him.
He was also glad for Emma’s sake. It was unkind to allow her to have any expectations of a proposal from him. The sooner he was gone, the better. That would leave the field free for more suitable suitors.
True, he would have liked to visit Much Wemby one more time, to talk to the parson at the church in the village proper, to look out for more details from the Tommy stories. But perhaps it was for the best he wouldn’t have that chance.
After all, he might fall into the clutches of his enchantress again.
He did not pen a letter to Lady Chalfont that afternoon since he would be writing her when he reached home.
Instead, he made sure his valet and driver knew he would depart tomorrow.
He allowed Sir John to show him over the estate, although Henry had already seen most of it on walks with Emma and Charlotte.
He made a fourth for whist with the D’Oyly women and suffered through Lady D'Oyly’s far-from-subtle hints about how Henry should invite the family to Bledsoe Park and her whingeing disappointment that he was leaving.
“You’ve only just arrived, Lord Ashthorpe. Emma has not even had a chance to wear her white silk for you!”
Lady D'Oyly pouted and spoke as if she were a child, as if her daughter were a doll for her to dress and show off. Even Mina would not engage in such behavior.
Henry was glad to see that, apart from her mortification over her mother’s behavior, Emma did not seem upset he was leaving.
But there was something Henry was forgetting. Something he was meant to do.
Dinner was an unpleasant affair, verging on the noxious. Lady D'Oyly was more determined than ever to see flirtation in Henry’s polite attentions to Emma and Charlotte. The young women were withdrawn. Sir John’s energy had depleted itself. And Henry was distracted.
Henry broke into Lady D'Oyly’s insistence that he praise some aspect of Emma’s appearance.
“The fête at Much Wemby.”
Lady D’Oyly blinked. “Yes, Lord Ashthorpe?”
“The family does not attend.”
“Oh, no. It’s just an opportunity for too much drink. I would never allow my Emma or Charlotte to mix with the riff-raff in that way. One hears all kinds of—”
Emma said loudly, “It’s probably not at all like that, Mama, but we’d only interfere with everyone else’s fun.”
After dinner, Emma played the pianoforte, and Charlotte sang.
Sir John talked at length about tariffs on grains until his wife shushed him.
He seemed well-versed in the matter, so perhaps that was the subject of his secret correspondence with the marchioness.
But Lady D'Oyly far preferred to discuss how well Emma and Henry looked standing next to each other.
Henry was restless. He was still vexed by something.
At last, Lady D'Oyly wore herself out, all the ladies retired, and Sir John poured brandies for Henry and himself.
“It’s a fine night.” Henry pulled back a curtain, expecting darkness, but there was a full moon lighting the landscape.
Sir John joined him at the window. “They always hold the fête on the first full moon in May.”
“It looks bright enough to ride.”
“Does it?” Sir John turned away. “You better hurry then, or the dancing will be over before you get there.”