Cheryl Holt (21 page)

“Yes. It’s a combination of the percolating water and the heat.”

“Rumor has it that it’s more than that. That the spa is possessed of mysterious properties.”

“Balderdash.” Kate used the response Anne insisted upon. They could never contend that magic was afoot, or next they knew, they’d be tarred and feathered and run out of town.

Prudence had grown bolder. “Would you dry me?”

“I’d like to.”

They stared at each other, and a world of perception flickered between them. Prudence proceeded to the changing room, and Kate followed, trembling with eagerness.

Modesty abandoned, Prudence clutched the hem of her
drenched nightshirt and tugged it off. The candle was still lit, and Kate could see all: her pert breasts, her slender waist, her curvaceous hips.

Kate gulped and fumbled about, then seized a towel and dropped to her knees. Starting at Prudence’s shoulders, she fluffed it down. At her breasts, she massaged in leisurely circles, round and round her nipples. She sank to her tummy, her privates, her legs, but as she spun her so that she could dry the rest, she glared, then frowned.

Prudence had bruises from a strap across her back and buttocks. They were over a week old, faded to yellow, but visible.

She traced the welts. “Willie did this to you?”

Prudence deliberated, then admitted, “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Our cook burned his eggs.”

“Why did he whip you and not her?”

“He beat her, too, but I supervise her, so he considered it my fault.”

“Oh, Pru . . .” Wrapping her arms around Prudence, Kate hung her head in dismay, as Prudence linked their fingers. Frozen in their spot, they contemplated the enormity of what had been acknowledged.

Prudence broke the moment. “Let’s get me dressed.”

Kate rose and fussed with buttons and laces, and in case a servant happened to observe Prudence sneaking in, she did a quick braid of her hair.

They hiked through the woods toward Willie’s farm. At the boundary, they scaled the fence and continued on to the edge of the trees. Willie’s house was situated in the spacious yard beyond.

With Willie’s violent tendencies confirmed, she was terrified to let Prudence depart. Yet, she couldn’t ask Anne to shelter Prudence, and if they tried, Willie could show up and forcibly remove her.

What power did three unmarried women have against a man?

“If you’re ever in danger,” Kate inquired, “you must contact me straightaway.”

“We have a stable boy,” Prudence said. “He likes me. I assume he’d come to my aid, but it would be hazardous for him. Could you pay him?”

“Yes. If you ever need me, send him. I’ll find a way to assist you.”

Prudence gazed at her as if she wanted to confess so much more, but they both required opportunity to think, to plan. Surprising Kate very much, she raised up on tiptoe and kissed Kate on the lips, then fled.

Kate watched until the rear door opened, and Prudence slipped inside. Then, with a heavy heart, she trudged away.

Lady Felicity Babcock paced on the verandah that circled her mother’s mansion. It was stuffy inside the ballroom, and guests were wandering the gardens, so her smile was firmly affixed. Her mother’s fetes were all the rage, with people begging for invitations, so the cream of society had flooded to the residence, and she couldn’t bear that someone might espy her and speculate as to whether she was despondent.

There’d been so much slander about Stephen, and the status of their betrothal, and she declined to instigate further discussion. With no one having seen Stephen in such a long while, gossip was rampant—that he was mad, that he’d lost limbs, that he’d been struck deaf, dumb, or blind, or all three combined—and no matter how vehemently their families denied the lies, they kept circulating.

Inside, the music ended to a smattering of applause, and she could barely keep from charging in, commandeering the stage, and shouting at the crowd. Didn’t they recognize genius when they heard it? Couldn’t they discern when they had a virtuoso in their midst?

Her dearest cousin, Robert, had labored for months, orchestrating the dancing for the soiree, but the members of the
ton
scarcely noticed the prodigy behind the tunes.

Others didn’t understand how he struggled with his art, how he suffered in creating his symphonies and sonatas. It embarrassed him, having to degrade himself by writing and performing for money. As he’d mentioned so often, he couldn’t achieve his full potential when he had to work for a living. She ached for him and wished she could help.

If only she’d met Robert before Stephen!

When Stephen had proposed, Robert had been studying on the Continent, and he had returned later, after Stephen was gone. He’d run out of funds, had been destitute and pleaded for her family’s support.

Had their paths crossed earlier, there would have been no courtship by Stephen Chamberlin. With Stephen away at war, and Robert abiding in her mother’s home, he’d been a daily companion who’d charmed her until she’d been smitten, enamored to the point of excess.

If she’d had the authority, she’d have given her entire fortune over to his control so that he could use it to bolster his talent. She had the most splendid vision, of the two of them sharing an Italian villa, on the shores of the azure Mediterranean. Robert could spend his days composing, and she could be his rock, his foundation, a silent witness to his musical gift, a stalwart friend, a confidante. She could . . .

Her mother’s voice boomed, announcing the start of the buffet line, and Felicity jumped, mentally lashing herself for her untoward rumination.

How could she pine for another while Stephen was wasting away? He was a hero, England’s champion, his name reverently whispered by an admiring citizenry. He’d nearly sacrificed all to King and country, yet she lamented being stuck with him.

Oh, she was so fickle, so ambivalent and selfish!

Down the patio, Robert crept outside as everyone else was wandering in to dine, so she strode to the gazebo, their secret meeting place. Being affianced, she had much more freedom than she needed, so there was no chaperone about to dissuade her or urge caution. She hurried to be with him.

As she raced up the stairs of the decorative building, he was already there, and she was thrilled anew by how beautiful he was. With his blond hair, blue eyes, and pink cheeks, he was pretty, in an almost feminine way. A few inches taller than herself, he was slender, small-boned, and not a masculine sort. He’d never excelled at sporting events or exhibited aggressive behaviors.

In every fashion, he was the exact opposite of Stephen Chamberlin, and the more acquainted she was with Robert, the more she realized what a grave mistake she’d made in plighting herself to Stephen. When Stephen was hale, he was so manly, so virile and robust, and he possessed no appreciation for poetry, art, or music, which were the topics that consumed Robert. Robert needed her, needed a strong woman to look after him. He stirred her female instincts to coddle and care in a manner Stephen never could.

Stephen was too independent, too self-reliant. Even while lying at death’s door, he hadn’t called for her a single time. Where was the romance in that?

Robert bussed a chaste kiss on her cheek. Once prior, he’d attempted the same—but directly on the mouth!—and she’d shied away and scolded him. She wasn’t the type who would sneak around, dallying with another whenever Stephen wasn’t present.

Yet, at the same juncture, she was irritated that Robert had so easily acquiesced to her edict that they not embrace. She viewed their amour as a Grand Passion, the kind about which poets waxed on. If he felt a heightened ardor, wouldn’t he be
overcome by desire, despite her requests to the contrary?

Just once, couldn’t the blasted man grab her and kiss her senseless? Did he have to be so accursedly polite?

“Felicity, darling, how I’ve missed you.”

“I’m so glad to be home.”

“Sit with me.”

He gestured toward a bench that was shielded by the shadows, and she hustled to it. After her recent trip to Bristol, she was desperate to confide the details.

For months, Stephen had refused to speak with her, claiming the engagement to be over. He’d insisted she disseminate the news that he was crazed, crippled, and thus, their betrothal terminated.

She’d wept and prayed and deliberated as to whether she should agree, but in the end, she couldn’t forsake him. Her mother had explained how he was hurting and angry, but would recuperate, and when he did, she would be waiting, loyal, dependable, and delighted with the match she’d settled upon.

“How was your journey?” Robert queried.

While they endeavored not to talk about Stephen, he was like a large African elephant, tromping around between them. “He’s traveled to a private spa. Lady Eleanor took me to visit.”

“And . . .?”

“He’s very much improved.”

“No,” he muttered, sounding irked.

“Yes.” Unable to abide his disappointment, she glanced away. Was he hoping Stephen would die? No one could be that cruel. “I was very pleased!”

“Well, of course you were.” Solicitous, he patted her wrist and stroked her glove. “You love him. It’s only natural that you’d be happy.”

Did she love Stephen? Her fortune had guaranteed that she could marry whomever she wanted. Stephen had seemed a stellar choice. Handsome, dashing, spirited, and fun, when
he’d escorted her about, she’d felt like the luckiest female in England. Decked out in his military uniform, he’d been so gallant, and the other girls had been so jealous.

“It was marvelous to see him so healthy.”

“So he’ll fully recover?”

“I’m positive.”

At the notion of Stephen’s successful convalescence, Robert appeared ill, and she was confused as to her sentiments. Stephen’s rehabilitation would mean the termination of her relationship with Robert. After all, she couldn’t be newly wed, but mooning over an old admirer.

Still, she could never wish Stephen harm, could never be satisfied with his malingering. She wanted the best for him. She really did, but her decisions were jumbled.

She yearned, she didn’t. She’d grown attached, she shouldn’t have.

What she wouldn’t give to return to her initial season of parties, where life had been merry and gay, and there had been no wounded, tormented soldier to cloud her horizon!

Suddenly, Robert seized her hands, squeezing tight, and he raised them to his lips. “Tell me there’s a chance for us!” He gazed at her, his fervor making her heart pound. “I can’t bear this . . . this . . . uncertainty, where I can’t be sure if you’ll ever be mine!”

“Robert!”

“My sweet, if we are torn asunder, I don’t know how I shall survive it. I truly, truly don’t.”

Stunning her, he leaned in and kissed her, and she let him. He pressed her backward, so that her chignon was crushed to the lattice, and his mouth ground against hers, their teeth clinking together.

Was this manly ardor? Had he finally been swept away by lust? He tipped her farther, so that she was reclined on the bench, and he came down on top of her, a knee draped over her thighs, the other on the floor.

He continued with the mashing of their lips, and she tried to relax, tried to succumb as was expected, but she couldn’t muster any enthusiasm.

It was so awkward, so uncomfortable. While his eyes were closed, hers were open, and through the rose arbor she stared out at the sky, finding it absurd that she was counting the stars.

He reached to the front of her gown and caressed her breast through the fabric. Her married friends had hinted that her future husband might fondle them, so she wasn’t shocked or revolted, but though Robert’s touch was interesting, it didn’t generate so much as a ripple of excitement.

Perhaps she had on too many layers of apparel.

His fingers slithered up, and just as he would have glided them under her bodice, voices murmured nearby, and they froze. A couple strolled past on the walk, and frantic, they scrambled about, straightening their clothes and hair.

“I’ll wait for you forever, darling!” Robert vowed at her ear. “Forever!”

Felicity frowned, and stood, relieved that it was too dark for Robert to observe her expression. Why had there been no spark? No fire? Had they been doing it correctly? As it had been her first genuine kiss, she was no expert, so she couldn’t say. Maybe she didn’t know how to feel feminine passion, or maybe it took more time.

Calming herself, she clasped Robert’s arm, and they promenaded out of the gazebo, acting as if they were innocently exploring the garden. Felicity stayed with him till they were inside, then, more confused than ever, she pleaded fatigue and rushed to the ladies’ retiring room.

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