Chapter Four #2
Purgatory was what most men had to put up with to get sex they neither had to pay for nor marry for.
Heaven was an attractive married woman with a strong sexual appetite and a safe husband. Some widows fit into that category if they emphatically did not want marriage.
She realized that in some ways she was heaven. She was even barren. A distinct advantage.
She gave the starched cloth a final twitch, then they linked arms to reenter the house.
She knew the people lingering in the supper room were watching, as were those they met as they went in search of Harriette.
Probably everyone knew by now that the Golden Lily had gone into the garden with wild young Lord Vandeimen who desperately needed money.
She caught a few disappointed grimaces from the wasps and their families, and a few looks of concern, or even pity from others.
It was hard not to shout out an explanation.
Of course I’m not bewitched by this young fool! I’m saving him. In weeks I’ll be free, and so will he!
Thank God for Harriette. Maria found herself blank of conversation, but Harriette chattered to Vandeimen without any inhibition at all.
By the time they climbed into their carriage, Harriette had opened the subject of his family and offered condolences on his losses. Along the way, she uncovered the fact that he’d had little contact with the remnants of his family, and hinted that he really should change that.
Maria watched anxiously for signs that his patience with this interference was snapping, but he seemed, if anything, bemused.
Harriette progressed next through the war, gaining a brief account of his career before moving on to her favorite subject, the Duke of Wellington.
Vandeimen seemed indulgent. “If you want stories of the great man, Mrs. Coombs, you’ll have to hope my friend Major Hawkinville returns to England soon. He was on his staff.”
“Really! Then I do hope to meet him.”
“My aunt has a tendre for the duke,” Maria teased, both pleased and disconcerted by the way Harriette could deal with Vandeimen while she could not. Of course Harriette was over fifty and had sons older than this dangerous creature.
She noted his casual mention of Major Hawkinville, who must be the friend the duchess had mentioned.
Who was the other? Lord Wyvern. Ah, yes.
She’d heard gossip about the recent death of the mad Earl of Wyvern, and the passing of the title to the sane, Sussex branch of the family.
Vandeimen needed friends. Perhaps she could find them for him.
At last the carriage drew up in front of her house, and the first battle was over. “Norton can take you on to your place, my lord,” she said.
He had climbed out to help them down. “No need. And it’s somewhat out of the way.”
“All the more need,” said Harriette firmly. “Your place is too much out of the way, young man, and did not look at all comfortable.” She turned to Maria. “I think he should move in with us.”
“Harriette, that’s impossible!”
“Why? We have one unused bedroom, and I and the others can be chaperon if anyone thinks it’s needed. Well, my lord?”
He looked between them. “Others?”
After half an hour of Harriette, the poor man looked like someone swallowed by the ocean and spat out drenched and exhausted.
“Other guests,” Maria said, unable to help a sympathetic smile. “My late husband’s aunt and uncle have lived here for years. They are somewhat invalid, but still present in the house. There is also my young niece Natalie, and my aunt, of course.”
As she spoke, she realized that having him in her house would make it hugely easier to control his way of life. With him off in Holborn she’d be in a constant fret as to whether he was drinking, gaming, or priming his pistol.
“It would be an economy, and my poor valet would be ecstatic to return to civilization . . . if you are sure you don’t mind. It will cause talk.”
“We will cause talk anyway, and it will be a great deal more convenient to have you nearby. Please, let Norton take you to your rooms, and tomorrow, move in here with us.”
He bowed. “Your wish is my command, as always, O ruler of my heart.” There was a distinct edge to the last part, and she wondered if he understood her purpose.
Not a stupid man. Why had she assumed he would be?
Because, she thought, as the coach carried him away, so many of the cavalry officers she’d met had been. Dashing, courageous, but not of sparkling intellect. She rather gathered that those who were clever found themselves seconded to other duties.
“Well done,” said Harriette as they entered the hall. “Everything set.”
“I think him moving here is a bit extreme.”
“Truly?”
Maria shrugged. “There’s a lot of work to be done. But he has friends. That’s a hopeful sign.” She explained what the duchess had said.
“Tattoos?” said Harriette with a grimace. “What were their mothers thinking? But it will certainly be easier for Lord Vandeimen to meet his friends here.”
Maria looked around at pale walls, marble pillars, and discreetly tasteful classical statues—or copies of them, to be precise.
Maurice had made every effort to impress, and this house had been his principal point of impression.
She had been another. Sadly, all his impressions had been imitation. Even the pillars were faux marble.
He’d taught her many lessons, including that most people had two or even more faces. She’d already seen a number of faces to Lord Vandeimen, but she suspected there were more.
The six weeks loomed in front of her and she hurried to the peaceful sanctuary of her bedroom, but even there uncomfortable memories stirred.
She’d enjoyed Maurice’s demanding visits to her bed.
Once she’d realized the truth, however—that she was merely part of his strategy for entering and using English society—her hunger had shamed her.
As her maid stripped off her finery, she remembered the many lonely nights when she’d longed for him to come to her.
She’d often thought of going to him, but never found the courage.
How could she? His care for her sprang at best from mild affection, and at worst from a need to keep her pacified so she wouldn’t crack his illusion of perfect success.
Begging for more had been unthinkable.
Though he’d been discreet, she’d known about his mistresses. They had all been lively, colorful women. Not like her.
She knew about his bastards, too, because he’d told her about each one, and the provision he was making. The allowances had been specified in his will. Another inherited burden.
And then there was Natalie.
Natalie’s mother had been Maurice’s aristocratic Belgian cousin, Clarette, but she was also Maurice’s child.
When her official parents had died, she had come to live with him.
The truth was never spoken, but Tante Louise and Oncle Charles knew that Maurice and Clarette had been in love since their teens.
Natalie was a delightful girl, but Maria had resented having a reproach at her infertility under her roof. Now she’d invited a demon there.
She smiled wryly as she dried her hands and applied cream. No danger in that. If she hadn’t been able to go to her husband demanding sex, she certainly could not invade her hired escort’s rooms with that in mind.