Noble Satyr: A Georgian Historical Romance (59 page)

He had brought his mount right up to her and
stared down into her upturned face with something akin to mute
stupefaction. Then, much to the delight of his boon companions, he
exacted a landlord’s privilege for her trespass by dismounting,
pulling her into a tight embrace and roughly kissing her full on
the mouth. She had tried in vain to push him off but his arm about
her waist was vise-like and he continued to crush her mouth under
his, violating her with his tongue; he tasting of spirits and
pepper. When he finally came up for air, his brown eyes searched
her shocked face as if expecting some sort of revelation. It was
only when she slapped his face hard that the spell was broken and
he was brought to a sense of his surroundings. He released her with
one vicious whispered word in her ear and a low mocking bow.

Even now, two years on, remembering how
pitilessly he had whispered that hateful word, Jane shuddered and
swallowed. He could very well have stabbed her in the heart; such
was the hurt that came with that one word:
harlot
.

She smiled resignedly at her stepbrother,
all of one and twenty years of age and with so much responsibility
resting on his thin young shoulders.

“But what else were they to think, Tom? I,
an unmarried girl cast out of her father’s house, living under the
protection of an old widower, they could not take me for anything
less than a harlot.”

“No! No, you’re
not
!
Never
say
so!” he commanded, a glance across the room at his mother, who was
pouring out more tea in her dish. “You made one tiny error of
judgment, that’s all,” he continued. “For that you must suffer the
consequences for the rest of your life? I say, a thousand times,
no
.”

“Dearest Tom. You’ve always been my stalwart
defender, though I don’t deserve such devotion,” she said in a
rallying tone. “You cannot dismiss what I did as a
tiny
error of judgment. After all, that error caused my father to disown
me and brand me a whore.” When Tom made an impatient gesture and
looked away, she smiled reassuringly and touched his flushed cheek.
“I cannot—
I do not
—hide from that. If your uncle had not
taken me in, I would have ended up in a Bristol poorhouse, or
worse, dead in a ditch. I will always be grateful to Mr. Allenby
for giving me shelter.”

“I’d have looked after you, Jane.
Always
.”

“Yes, Tom. Of course.”

But they both knew the unspoken truth of
that lie. Jane’s father, Sir Felix Despard, would never have
permitted Tom to interfere in a father’s justifiable punishment of
a disobedient and disgraced daughter. The past four years had given
Jane time to reflect on the folly of her impetuousness in allowing
her heart to rule her head. The loss of her virtue and its tragic
consequences had bestowed upon her father the right to cast her out
of the family home, alone, friendless, and destitute. She had
disgraced not only her good name but also her family’s honor. Jane
did not blame her father for her disgrace, but she would never
forgive him for what he had ordered done to her.

Regardless of what her father, Jacob Allenby
and others thought of her, she still believed in upholding the
moral principles of fairness, honesty and taking responsibility for
her actions. The predicament she had found herself in had not been
of her father’s making, it had been hers and hers alone. But Tom
would never understand. Her father and his Uncle Jacob had spared
her stepbrother the whole sordid story, for which she was grateful.
Tom was an earnest young man who saw the good in everyone. Jane
hoped he always would.

“You’re the best of brothers, Tom,” she said
sincerely and swiftly kissed his cheek.

But Tom did not feel he had earned such
praise. He should have protected her.

Sir Felix Despard of Despard Park,
Wiltshire, had wanted an earl for a son-in-law at the very least, a
duke if he could get it. But he had gone about it all the wrong
way, ignoring his daughter’s sheltered upbringing and ignorance of
the ways of Polite Society and pushed his only child out onto the
marriage mart defenseless and left to her own devices. Tom never
forgave his weak-minded and overly ambitious stepfather and he
blamed him for the inevitable and very calculated seduction of his
stepsister.

Tom grabbed Jane’s hand.

“If you had accepted any man but Lord Salt!”
he said fiercely. “He always has this look on his face—hard to
describe—as if someone has dared break wind under his noble nose.
The way his nostrils quiver, I just want to burst out laughing. You
may giggle, Jane, but God help me to keep a straight face if the
rest of the Sinclair family have the same noble nostrils. His
sister the Lady Caroline Sinclair is said to be worth in excess of
forty thousand pounds and receives at least three marriage
proposals a week. The Earl keeps her locked up in the country for
fear of her eloping to Gretna with the first fortune hunter who
makes up to her, because she is so naïve as to believe these fools
have fallen in love with her and not her fortune.”

“Oh dear, Tom, you make me quite faint with
anticipation at meeting my future sister-in-law,” Jane said with an
indulgent smile. “But how do you know this about Caroline
Sinclair?”

Tom pulled at the points of his silk
waistcoat with a smile of smug satisfaction. “I have my sources,
Jane. High placed sources at that.”

“La, Tom, will you stop spreading idle
gossip like an old maiden aunt!” Lady Despard lectured
disapprovingly, though she had finally opened her ears hearing
mention of the noble Sinclair family. She stood before the ornate
looking glass above the fireplace. A fading beauty on the other
side of forty, she preened herself in the reflection, gently
patting into place her blonde powdered and pomaded upswept
coiffure, adjusting one of the tiny bows scattered strategically
amongst this greased confection. “Lady Caroline Sinclair is
Wiltshire’s premier beauty and not yet eighteen so I’m not
surprised Lord Salt keeps her locked up. Look what happened to you
the one and only time
you
was let off the leash, Jane!”

“
Mamma
.”

“What high placed sources, Tom?” Jane asked,
ignoring her stepmother and hoping Tom would do the same.

“Why do you never defend yourself against
her petty taunts?” Tom whispered fiercely.

“I cannot defend the indefensible,” Jane
answered simply. When Tom continued to stare angrily at his mother,
she touched the upturned close-fitting cuff of his velvet
frockcoat. “Please, Tom. What sources?”

“Do you remember Mr. Arthur Ellis who came
to Despard Park just before your come out? It was a long time ago
now but he was a very particular friend of mine up at Oxford. Thin,
freckle-faced chap with big ears. No? You must remember Art! He
spent the entire sennight gazing at you. Well, Art had the good
fortune to obtain the post of secretary to Lord Salt. Who’d have
thought it back then! Although,
I
wouldn’t call it good
fortune to be appointed scribbler to a thin nosed iceberg. But in
Art’s case, beggars can’t be choosers, as they say. His family are
all terribly clever but odiously poor.”

“But surely Mr. Ellis didn’t abuse his post
as secretary and confide in you about Lady Caroline?”

“Of course not,” Tom answered indignantly,
feeling acute embarrassment for breaching his friend’s confidence.
“I pressed Art to tell me about Lady Caroline because of Uncle’s
startling bequest to her. Mamma and I do not understand in the
least why a young lady my uncle never met in his entire life, who
was the daughter of his estranged neighbor—”

“A spoiled beauty worth in excess of forty
thousand pounds,” reiterated Lady Despard.

“—was bequeathed ten thousand pounds of
Uncle’s money. It’s a mighty odd circumstance and one Uncle’s
lawyers cannot fathom either. Can you blame me for being curious,
Jane?”

Jane could not. She did not pretend to
understand the hatred between neighbors, merchant and noble, or
what had caused the age-old feud between the Earls of Salt Hendon
and the Allenbys. As for the merchant’s startling bequest to the
Lady Caroline, it created more questions in Jane’s mind than she
cared to speculate on and was glad that the butler chose that
moment to interrupt.

“What is it, Springer?” she asked politely,
hearing the door open and turning to look at the butler over her
bare shoulder.

“Lord Salt and Mr. Ellis, ma’am.”

Stepbrother and sister exchanged a wide-eyed
stare, as if caught out by the very object of their gossiping.

“What?
He
is here
now
?” Lady
Despard blurted out rudely and before the butler could confirm that
indeed the Earl of Salt Hendon and his freckle-faced secretary
waited downstairs, added with a trill of breathless anticipation,
“What a high treat for us all! What a pity Sir Felix isn’t here to
receive his lordship.” She looked at Jane; all resentment
momentarily suspended in the excitement of the moment, and
exclaimed, “Brother Jacob was used to say he’d take a shotgun to
that
hellborn rake
if he came within a mile of an Allenby
female. Shall I order up more tea?”

Jane informed the butler in a perfectly
controlled voice that he was to show his lordship and Mr. Ellis up
at once, and to bring a fresh pot of tea and clean dishes. But no
sooner had the door closed on the servant’s back than she sank back
on the window seat, as if her knees were unable to support her
waif-like frame. She was deaf to her stepmother’s entreaties that
she go at once to the looking glass and there tidy her hair and
straighten the square neckline of her bodice, and blind to her
stepbrother’s frown of concern, thinking that if she’d brought her
needlework to the drawing room she could at least pretend
occupation and never need look the nobleman in the eye.

Coming face to face with the Earl of Salt
Hendon, Jane lost the facility of speech.

Magnus Vernon Templestowe Sinclair, ninth
Baron Trevelyan, eighth Viscount Lacey and fifth Earl of Salt
Hendon, strode into the drawing room on the butler’s announcement
and immediately filled the space with his presence. The papered
walls and ornate plastered ceiling shrunk inwards, or so it seemed
to Jane who had grown accustomed to the Allenbys, who were all
short and narrow-shouldered. The Earl was neither. He was dressed
in what Jane presumed to be the height of London elegance: A
Venetian blue frockcoat with elaborate Chinoiserie embroidery on
tight cuffs and short skirts; an oyster silk waistcoat that cut
away to a pair of thigh-tight black silk breeches rolled over the
knees and secured with diamond knee buckles; white clocked
stockings encased muscular calves and enormous diamond encrusted
buckles in the tongues of a pair of low heeled black leather shoes.
Lace at wrists and throat completed this magnificent toilette. Yet,
neither ruffled lace or expertly cut cloth could hide the
well-exercised muscle in the strong legs or the depth of chest and
width of shoulder. But he did not dominate by size alone. There was
purpose in his stride, and when he took a quick commanding glance
about the room the intensity in his brown eyes demanded that those
who fell under his gaze pay attention or suffer the consequences of
his displeasure.

Lady Despard, standing near the fireplace,
brought him up short. She dropped into a low curtsey, giving his
lordship a spectacular view of her deep cleavage. When the Earl
tore his gaze from her over-ripe bosom, it was to turn and regard
Jane with a disdainful glare. A look, hard to read, passed across
the nobleman’s square face and then it was if he suddenly realized
he was being less than polite. He bowed slightly as Lady Despard
rose up and with her son crossed the carpet to greet him.

Formal introductions gave Jane time to find
her composure. She stood frozen, awed by the sheer physicality of
the man, unable to bend her stiff knees into the desired respectful
curtsey. She appeared calm enough but inwardly she felt sick to her
stomach and relieved at the same time. She was glad that he barely
looked at her. When he did, it was with tacit disapproval and as if
to make certain she was paying attention. This expression stayed
with him when he spoke a few words with Tom. Jane saw it in the
clench of his strong jaw and the way in which his lips pressed
together in a thin line, giving his classical features a hard,
uncompromising edge. Yet, no amount of cold disdain could diminish
the fact he was a ruggedly handsome man.

Tom managed only a few words with the Earl
before his mother interrupted. She looked up expectantly at the
nobleman from under her darkened lashes and endeavored to engage
his interest with a run of small talk; her inanities about the
inclement weather, particularly the unusual severity of the frosts
for the start to the new year, receiving polite but monosyllabic
replies. Jane frowned and was embarrassed by her stepmother’s
blatant flirting with this jaded nobleman who was obviously
accustomed and thoroughly bored by the wiles of women who
constantly threw themselves at him.