Black Silk (11 page)
“What if that is the only solution that won’t hurt either of you?” And it was true. Anything else would risk bringing scandal into Marcus’s house, tarnishing her sisters, and that she could not do.
“You must think of your happiness. Oh! This wetness feels terrible.”
Maryanne gulped—there was a puddle of water on the floor. Her leg muscles clenched at the thought of that coming out of her. Her happiness didn’t matter now. This business of birth must come first, though Maryanne felt awkward and useless as she watched Marcus vanish down the hallway with his long strides, Venetia in his arms. A young footman with large eyes answered the ring of the bellpull, and Maryanne gave instructions.
“Summon Dr. Plim of Number Ten, Harley Street. And a carriage is to be sent for Mrs. Collins—her direction is Number Six, Crofton Lane.”
The boy nodded, and she waved her hand at him. “Make haste.”
He turned and loped away, clearly excited by the urgency.
Then she went in search of Mrs. Dorset, the housekeeper. The severe woman took charge at once, and Maryanne trailed in her capable wake as she gave orders to the maids, to the kitchen staff, and to a bevy of footmen.
Useless. In this situation, Maryanne truly was, but she didn’t know where she should go. What she should do. And she wanted to keep busy. When she paused, she slipped into frightening thoughts. Thoughts of Dash’s sister and her lost child.
No amount of wealth smoothed the business of childbirth.
Two years before, the Regent’s daughter, Princess Charlotte, had died giving birth to a precious child, who was also lost.
Maryanne raced up the stairs to Venetia’s bedchamber. To her surprise, she saw Venetia pacing the hallway, with Marcus holding her hand. Mrs. Dorset nodded in satisfaction. “Wise, my lady. The doctor will advise you to lie down, for they want the patient where they won’t be troublesome.”
Hurried footsteps sounded behind, and Maryanne stepped to the edge of the corridor. Maids hurried past, arms loaded with sheets, towels, and basins of steaming water.
No one was paying attention to her, thank heaven.
“Now, my lord,” Mrs. Dorset said to Marcus, “it will be a long wait. You—”
“I will stay with my wife,” Marcus growled, and Maryanne knew he would. The midwife would be exasperated; Maryanne had overheard her say how useful it was that men took refuge in their studies and their port and left the important work to women. The physician, Dr. Plim, would be shocked, too.
Maryanne joined the line of maids rushing into the bedchamber.
But Mrs. Dorset stood in the doorway. “No, dear. You’re an unmarried miss and have no business in here.” Firm hands turned her and directed her out the door. Marcus led Venetia in, so Maryanne had to stand aside. And the door closed firmly in her face.
She’d had no idea the business of laboring would take so long. Had Venetia truly been suffering and enduring for eight hours? The pains had been coming every few minutes—how did a woman endure that for hours on end? Poor Venetia must be exhausted.
Maryanne could take it no longer. She gathered her skirts, crumpled and worse for wear, left her bedchamber, and raced down the hallway. At her knock, the door opened.
She caught her first glimpse of it. Venetia was sitting up on her bed, Marcus at one side, and Mrs. Collins at the other. “Now rest for a minute, my lady,” Mrs. Collins soothed. “You must relax, breathe, and make ready to push again.”
Dr. Plim was washing his hands in a basin. “Have her push once more—I will turn the head this time.”
“Oh, oh—it’s coming again,” Venetia gasped. Her soaked hair was pulled back, but red tendrils were plastered to her face. Her skin was flushed, and perspiration gleamed on her cheeks. Her white shift was soaked through and bunched up to the top of her thighs.
Struck mute with shock, unable to move, Maryanne stood in the doorway. Her sister’s panting turned to cries and then a startled scream.
Venetia!
“Oh—oh! I’m sorry…I didn’t mean…it just came out,” Venetia gasped. “Oh, I’m so embarrassed.”
What had come out? The baby? No, not that…
“Not to worry, my lady,” Mrs. Collins reassured. “It’s the pressure of the babe. Now, breathe. Relax before you must push again.”
A body stepped directly into her line of sight. Maryanne blinked, facing a simple gray dress, and took a step back. It was Mrs. Dorset.
She gripped the doorjamb before the housekeeper could shut the door. “How…how long will it take?”
Mrs. Dorset frowned. “As long as is needed, Miss Hamilton. With the first, it can be a lengthy business, but it shan’t be much longer. Now, you must go.”
She wanted to—wanted to retreat to a book and a nice cup of tea. But in a mere six months, she would be the one doing this!
And for all Mrs. Dorset’s reassurances…
Her sister’s grunts became a cry. Through the space at the door, Maryanne saw Dr. Plim move between her sister’s parted legs. She couldn’t bear to look. Marcus squeezed Venetia’s hand.
“There,” announced Plim with a satisfied air.
Mrs. Collins moved, positioning Venetia’s bare foot against her hip. “Now push, my lady. As hard as ye can.”
Heavens, Mrs. Collins was directing Marcus to place Venetia’s foot at his hip. Face straining, Venetia braced herself and let out a cry of pure determination.
Maryanne felt her hand clasp to her mouth. She would be doing this? But she would have no loving husband at her side stroking her forehead and brushing back her damp hair.
Neither did many women, she reminded herself.
Shakily she withdrew and let Mrs. Dorset shut the door again. In six months, she would be suffering like Venetia, paying a high price for her one foolish night of adventure and pleasure and sex.
It wasn’t fair to force Dash into marriage, but how could she let Venetia and Marcus fight over her future? Could she face giving birth, having a child, all on her own?
“Y
ou should be resting, you shouldn’t be doing…this.”
Following her sister toward the west drawing room, Maryanne fiddled with her embroidered shawl. It offered little warmth, but the warm colors—russet and gold and pink—suited her, and she knew her face was starkly pale.
“Baby Richard is napping now.” Venetia yawned, and a soft smile played on her lips. “And a proposal of marriage is a rather important event.”
A shiver tumbled down Maryanne’s spine. Dash wasn’t going to propose marriage—he was being told to make himself available at the church on a certain date to marry a woman who had told him a pack of lies.
So many lies. Dash did not know about her editing works of erotica. Fortunately neither did Marcus. Only Venetia knew that and had agreed that even in a sound and happy marriage, some secrets were best kept from the man.
Maryanne caught a glimpse of herself in an ornate oval mirror as they neared the drawing room doors. She looked so terribly ordinary—a girl with bland brown curls and wide brown eyes filled with nervous fear. A glow touched her chubbier cheeks. And much larger breasts stuck out in front.
She looked enceinte…and guilty.
Venetia did not know she had carefully continued to edit naughty books for the last three months. She discreetly sent the works to Mr. Osbourne, the aging man-of-affairs hired by Georgiana, who tended the typesetting, press, and distribution of the works to their booksellers. It had been so easy to continue—since Venetia and Marcus had stayed in London for the birth of their baby, and she had stayed with them.
And no one, not even Venetia, knew about the debts she and Georgiana had incurred to publish books to support their authors. Georgiana had promised her it would be paid, and some was, but only enough to mollify creditors and landlords.
Maryanne’s steps faltered. “He was with Marcus for hours. What do you think happened?”
“There were no shots.”
“But we wouldn’t have heard a whip, if that was your husband’s weapon of choice.” But then, Dash might not object to a whipping….
Hand on her elbow, Venetia towed her forward.
Surely he had refused to marry her, pointing out that he was not about to be forced into marriage with a wanton tart. Had Marcus persuaded him?
Dash knew she was quite capable of making love in a hot-air balloon…in public. Proper, decent ladies didn’t do what she had done. The sort of lady he would expect to
marry
would not be willing to do that.
He knew of her friendship with Georgiana—what if he learned about her publishing business and the debts?
She took a steadying breath. Venetia would never tell Dash that Maryanne was Georgiana’s partner. There was no possible way he could find out the truth on his own.
The ornate double doors loomed before her, painted in cream and touched with gilt. Behind those doors, Dash was waiting for her. Alone.
In a niche beside, a water nymph bowed her head in demure innocence. Maryanne longed to hit the simpering statue with its water jug.
Impulsively she hugged Venetia. “I’ll go in alone.”
Venetia nodded. “Good luck.”
Maryanne gave her sister a fleeting smile. Luck!
She’d forced him into marriage, and she couldn’t—
couldn’t
—let him know how she had published erotica with a courtesan and now owed four thousand pounds to creditors! If society learned about that…
He’d hate her. Perhaps he could even use the truth to divorce her and bring terrible scandal onto Venetia and Grace. At least the winter weather had given Venetia a reason to dissuade their mother from coming to London just yet. Maryanne swallowed hard. Once she was engaged, she could admit her mistake to her mother.
But first, she had to agree to marriage with a stranger. And she had to concoct an incredibly cunning lie to convince this experienced, dangerous man to surrender four thousand pounds to her—she needed it from her dowry to pay the rest of the debts.
Expanding her chest on a deep breath, Maryanne pushed open the doors.
What was delicious Dash doing right now? Who was he fucking?
Harriet, Lady Evershire, paced the bedchamber of Mrs. Master’s, awaiting the nude young wench who would remove her clothes.
No more dreaming about Dash!
Once, with Craven, she’d almost cried out Dash’s name. It was preposterous. How long had her affair with Dash lasted? A mere fortnight. And it had been five years ago, before Moredon and Anne had married.
Poor Anne…Harriet had visited Buckstead to be of some comfort to her brother and sister-in-law…and then he had come. Dash. And she had been driven mad with wanting him. It had been like a craving for opium, a hunger she couldn’t fight or ignore. And Dash had rebuffed her every subtle flirtation. She had turned to pointed barbs and biting wit—for their arguments had been the flame that ignited their passions years ago. Yet this time, he barely seemed to notice her.
And she had been forced to give herself pleasure—in her bed, in the bath, on illicit walks out into the woods—and once she’d caught a group of young men watching her after she’d lifted up her skirts. They thought she’d been about to pee, not diddle herself. She’d run the little buggers off, though for once she’d reached climax without thinking of Dash. How lovely it had been to imagine four young men making love to her, awestruck by her breasts and arse. Four men with straight young cocks to please her.
Dash had stayed for three months, and she’d stayed, too, drawn to him by irresistible desire. He had left a few times—his estate of Swansley was only two hours away by carriage—and she’d barely been able to breathe each time, awaiting his return.
When had she become such a fool?
Harriet stopped by the wall of restraints—where ropes and whips hung from ornate gold hooks.
This was what she wanted—the flail with its six leather tongues. The grip filled her palm, hard yet pliant enough to mold to her hand.
With a smooth arc, she cracked the whip against the bedpost.
Why did Dash possess her thoughts so?
Thank heaven, Barrett had turned up while she was at Buckstead. He’d taken a room at the village inn. How naughty it had been to walk there, to spend her afternoon being fucked senseless by that brute of a man. He had introduced her to the most wonderful pleasure—he’d tied her to the bed, slid one of his dildos inside her, and then had pushed his own thick penis inside. It had been marvelous!
He’d guessed her obsession with Dash, though, and that had terrified her. He would blindfold her and make her speak about Dash, what he had done that day, all sorts of silly details. She would grow soaked with arousal, and finally Barrett had begun spanking her for her foolish preference for Dash. Oh, how she had enjoyed the punishment.
Harriet lashed vigorously with the whip until her cheeks glowed a healthy pink. She caught sight of her reflection in the cheval mirror.
She had hoped Dash forgotten once he had left for London, yet now, blast it, she dreamed of him at night.
She turned in front of the mirror and slowly drew up her skirts until she bared her rump. The plump, round cheeks looked so fetching reflected in the glass. She flicked the whip around so the splayed tail struck her arse.
How delightfully naughty it looked to see the tendrils of black leather against her pale peach skin. Wouldn’t Mr. Barrett love to watch her do this? He would want to be the one to wield the whip, but she would refuse.
Lazily she flicked the whip, letting the ends dance over the deep, shadowed valley between her cheeks.
A knock at the door stopped her, and she let her skirts slide down before calling, “Enter.”
She waited with impatience as the young girl slipped in and bobbed a curtsy. “My lady.”
Harriet glanced around. There would be peepholes, and Craven would be fastened to one set, excited by her play with the whip, ready to watch her be undressed by this large-breasted girl. Harriet pulled up her skirts. “You have been tardy, and I am impatient. Suck my cunny. Immediately!”
But as the girl obediently sank to her knees, and Harriet clasped the back of her chair to hold herself up, the door opened again.
Not Craven, but Barrett. “Not yet, my dear.” He gave a roguish grin and sent the girl away.
“I was expecting the delights of her tongue in my slit, Barrett.” Harriet drew herself up in autocratic splendor.
Barrett produced a length of black silk. “A man will enter the room in a minute, my dear. You will suck his hard, eager cock until he climaxes down your throat.”
His large hands pulled the silk over her eyes. He tied a tight knot behind her head, pulling her hair. The jolt of pain had her on the brink of climax.
“Do you understand?” he demanded.
“Yes,” she breathed.
She would play any game Barrett suggested—she was not afraid of him. And she stood like the countess she was as he roughly pulled her hands behind her back. Coarse rope touched her wrists, and she caught her breath.
“Perhaps it is even the man you cannot have. The staff you suck might belong to Swansborough.”