Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Elizabeth awoke with a start. She was still in her night-rail, but below the covers, her body felt decidedly less sore. She could not recall Milton leaving. Had she slumbered while he remained in her room? Perhaps she truly had but dreamt him.
She rubbed her eyes and spied a jar of salve on her bedside table. No apparition. He’d been as real as her thoughts, and every bit as wanton.
“Lizzie!” Annabelle cried from the foyer, no doubt announcing today’s bouquet.
Elizabeth grabbed her spectacles and wrapped her banyan about her. Sure enough, a vase of wild, pink hedge roses, thorns intact, greeted her downstairs. Pleasure and pain. How apt.
My dear Elizabeth, it is time you met the remainder of my family. Dress your best and await me downstairs at a quarter to noon. We will take luncheon with my mother. I expect you not to disappoint. —Milton
Post Script: You may inform your father our wedding will take place tomorrow morning at ten o’clock sharp in the church of St. Mary le Strand. I have taken the liberty of inviting your neighbors, the Lady Stanton, Mrs. R. and M., as well as Sir Wigglebottom.
Elizabeth’s insides chafed. Why, that scoundrel! To invite Lady Stanton and her cronies, inviting even her blasted pug was—
“Lizzie?” Annabelle interrupted. “What does he write this time, sister?”
Elizabeth steadied herself. “You are invited to my wedding, Bella, you and Papa, tomorrow at ten. And today I am to call on the Baron’s mother.”
“Well, it seems only right you meet your mother-in-law before you wed.”
You mean my whore of a mother-in-law? Elizabeth nearly spoke the words aloud, stopping herself just in time.
Instead, her eyes met Annabelle’s. “Yes, I imagine it is time I met the woman who made the Baron who and what he is.”
At precisely quarter to noon, Milton stood upon a threshold noticeably absent of floral debris, bolstering hope his betrothed had come round at last. Moments later, Miss Winthrop greeted him politely, dressed suitably in a spencer and bonnet.
“I trust you slept well, miss?” he asked as he led her to his carriage.
“Very well, thank you,” she answered primly, though her cheeks blushed as pink as his roses.
He’d pleasured her only enough to get her thinking last night, although he’d wished to ravish her completely. But Elizabeth deserved a virgin’s wedding night. He could play the devoted suitor for one more day and be the sort of bridegroom expected by a fair maiden of the Ton.
Milton would never truly be that man, because he didn’t want to be him. He did, however, want the kind of power men of society held. Wealth had bought him much, but only influence could buy him everything.
And he deserved no less.
With an eye to his mother, Milton surveyed his bride-to-be. Miss Winthrop’s silver-rimmed spectacles matched her ensemble nicely. She’d folded her gloved hands neatly in her lap and looked the very picture of gentility. Though she did not look at him, at all.
He did not push his betrothed to speak, choosing instead to maintain restraint. He was curious to see how she’d react to his mum on this, Elizabeth’s final day of tests.
After all, Miss Winthrop remained a means to an end—one he’d worked so long and so hard to achieve he wasn’t quite sure what he felt now that end was in reach. Relief? Excitement? Dread? It was no simple feat to forge a dynasty out of nothing. But he would, with Miss Winthrop at his side.
He peered out the window and saw they had arrived.
“Your mother lives here?” she exclaimed, alighting from his carriage to stare up at the nondescript, brick townhouse situated on a perfectly respectable London street.
“Lives and works here,” he corrected.
“Works?”
“This is Miss Li’s house of ill repute, Elizabeth.”
“But—”
“My mother runs Li’s whorehouse the way a housekeeper runs an estate. Only one does not refer to her as a housekeeper. One refers to her as house Madam. Madam Audrey, to be exact.”
Elizabeth paled.
“I can assure you, Miss Winthrop, little occurs here during the luncheon hour, as most whores remain abed still, asleep. You may encounter a few straggling guests, but I doubt very much you will be exposed to anything more salacious than my mother herself.”
She stiffened on his arm, as if she balked.
“Lizzie.” He gently pulled her toward the entrance. “Come now, you are braver than this.”
***
Only Elizabeth did not feel brave in the least. She may well be marrying a whoreson, but she’d never entered a whorehouse in all her life.
Yet before she knew it, they were ushered inside by a proper-looking footman who showed them to a formal drawing room to await the madam of this brothel, her future mother-in-law.
Within seconds, an arresting, dark-haired woman dressed in housekeeper black strode toward them.
“Jasper.” She bussed his cheeks. “It is good of you to come.” The lady did not deign to greet Elizabeth but only looked her over. “Not unattractive, but rather plain.”
She proceeded to assess Elizabeth’s every shortcoming. “Pity she wears spectacles,” Madam tutted, “as they hide her best feature, the eyes, though with hips like hers she’ll have no trouble birthing you heirs. You chose well in that regard, at least.”
The woman behaved as if she, Elizabeth Winthrop, did not inhabit the very person standing right before the lady!
“And you’ve verified her maidenhood?” His mother turned to Milton. “You’ll not be made a cuckold?”
Elizabeth opened her mouth in outrage, but the Baron stepped so close she felt his frame support—or warn—her.
“I assure you, Mother, Miss Winthrop remains as chaste as good breeding demands.” His hand fell to Elizabeth’s waist. “I could not be more pleased with my bride.”
Elizabeth’s nostrils flared. She would not let this woman rattle her. She’d hold her head high.
“Well I should hope so, given the sum you paid for her.” Madam Audrey huffed. “You should have offered half as much for—”
Elizabeth pulled from Milton and stared the lady down.
“I will not be discussed like a broodmare, madam, my appearance pored over without regard to my intellect. If you intend to treat the mother of your future grandchildren in such manner as this, ours will be no amicable relationship. In fact, I shall ensure your grandchildren have no relationship with you at all.”
Madam Audrey blinked, then turned to ring the bell, ushering in a servant. “Martha,” she addressed the girl rather than address Elizabeth, “we will luncheon now.”
The maid’s abrupt curtsy left Elizabeth only more outraged.
“Jasper, please escort your bride to the dining room,” his mother ordered.
Milton took Elizabeth’s arm.
What ensued passed in a blur, Elizabeth’s jaw remaining clenched for the entirety of the brutal meal. For Milton and his mother conversed over the dishes as if she were not seated right beside them. They spoke of business and mutual acquaintances, of Miss Li and of money.
There was a great deal of talk regarding money.
What’s more, Elizabeth had not a soul to turn to for sympathy; even the servants ignored her. Oh, they filled her glass and heaped her plate, but they performed these tasks with neither kindness nor contempt.
It was as if she had ceased altogether to exist.
Her mind hungered to comprehend why Milton’s mother gave her the cut direct. Never in her life had she been so disrespected. Snubbed before by members of the Ton, yes. But her person—the Winthrop name—was at the very least always acknowledged.
Yet their behavior made her feel almost ashamed of who she was.
She, Elizabeth Winthrop, of good standing and good breeding!
Of high morals and expectations! Never mind her father had gambled his wives’ fortunes and thereby his daughters’ futures.
Never mind she’d had to pawn, borrow, and sully her person by interacting with a subset of London’s riffraff to keep her father from financial ruin. She, Elizabeth Winthrop, was somebody.
The longer she sat in mortification, the more she wished to flee. And the longer she stewed and chafed, the less she cared if Papa now had to scrape, cheat, and steal to return every penny this bloody baron had paid him for her hand. She would not wed this man tomorrow. She could not.
“I am leaving,” she announced.
***
Milton’s head snapped up as Elizabeth’s chair scraped back from the table. She made for the door as his mother grabbed his hand to keep him in his seat.
“I warned you it was too much, too soon,” she grumbled.
“She’d best get used to it, Mum.”
“Only she needn’t get used to it the day before her wedding.” His mother pursed her lips. “You’ve been too hard on her, I can tell.”
“Were you not equally disrespected and dismissed, all responsibility for your wellbeing, and mine, cruelly disavowed by her class?”
“Jasper,” she chastened, “you are not your sire. I did not raise you to be such a man. And if you think that treating your wife the way I was once treated avenges past wrongs, you misunderstand entirely, son, what I wished to give you in life.”
Milton pushed back his chair, irked by his mother’s stern tone.
He was not avenging past wrongs, he was righting them.
Elizabeth must understand what she would face as his wife.
She must be willing to defend his hard-won title, position, and interests, not to mention protect their children from insult.
He was reclaiming his birthright—or as close to it as he could get.
His mother’s blood was just as good as his bloody sire’s.
He’d prove that man wrong or die trying.
Milton stormed from the table to retrieve what was his, but alarmingly found no sign of Elizabeth outside the dining room.
He began to push open doors, startling whores inside who either slept like the dead or blew him lazy kisses. He ignored them and hollered down the hall, “Elizabeth Winthrop, show yourself!”
Silence.