Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor (18 page)

“May Day!” she squealed. “I had forgotten. Oh, I wish we could be here tomorrow. I do so love a Maypole. Do you suppose there are Morris Dancing and May Day garlands?”

John shook his head in regret. “I do not know how those who call Newcastle home will celebrate. All I know is I claim this day our May Day. We will celebrate a new beginning.”

She leaned closer, and John inhaled her spicy scent, one which had quickly become his favorite. “A day just for us.”

“A day for you to forget everything except how much I admire you,” he corrected.

In response, she recited the common celebratory rhyme: “There is not a budding boy, or girl, this day, but is got up, and gone to bring in May.”

*

John could not recall a more perfect day. He cupped her hand upon his arm to keep it in place. He enjoyed the heat of her hand and the warmth of her body as it brushed against his. “You rarely remove the ring,” he whispered close to her ear. “It is quite unusual.”

“It belonged to my mother,” she confessed. “With words of his affection for his lady, Papa often described the ruins where he had discovered it. My mother wore it with honor. After her passing, my father placed it upon my finger when I was but a budding girl. I have worn it ever day since.”

John’s fingertip stroked the polished metal. “Some day you must add a jewel given to you by your husband.” He would give away his fortune if he could claim that particular role in the lady’s life.

Although her cheeks flushed with a becoming shade of pink, there was no mistaking the sincerity in her tone. “It is my dearest wish, my Lord.”

They had shopped the many tables and blankets spread with wares. He had convinced Isolde to accept the gifts of a vanity mirror and a parasol. The expression on her countenance brought such joy to John’s heart he thought it would burst. He had never felt so carefree. When she had joined a string of girls weaving their way through the clasped hands of a ring of country gentlemen in an impromptu country dance, John quickly followed suit. He abandoned the starch stance he so often assumed and simply enjoyed the laughter and the goodwill of those casting a spell of romance upon him and the lady. When the group tumbled to the grassy knoll as the last note of the song dissipated in the spring day, John wrapped Isolde in his embrace and fell backward, her body stretched out along the length of his.

The lady’s laughter bubbled over him. “What fun!” she declared.

“I have never known such happy non-repentance,” he confessed.

“Do you require a hand up?” John looked up into the countenance of one of the other male dancers. He noted how the man’s eyes assessed Miss Neville’s legs. The lady’s gown had been rucked up to her knees.

Evidently, Miss Neville also noticed the man’s gaze. “We are well, Sir.” She pushed herself to a seated position and quickly covered her legs.

John stood protectively over her. “As the lady explained, we have enjoyed our time in Newcastle.” He reached a hand down to her. “Now, if you will pardon us,” he said with a warning glare, and the man moved sullenly away.

“Look!” Miss Neville said as she dug a rock from the loose soil.

John knelt beside her. “What is it?”

She handed him a flattened stone with several minerals in it. “It is just the type of rock, which would interest Papa,” she explained. Turning the stone over in his palm, she added, “See. There is the image of a leaf in the stone. Likely from multiple centuries prior. I will wrap it with a ribbon and present it to Papa when he is well. It will please him and bring him good fortune.”

John dug the other half of the stone from where it was buried in the soil. “I had thought perhaps another leaf was on this half.” He matched the two stones to show they were once one. “But there is none. You have found the lucky one.” He smiled at her; their heads were but inches apart. She was close enough for him to kiss if he only he had the nerve.

“The luck was in the stone before it was broken by man.” She folded his fingers over it. “You keep that half for the future. Of all my acquaintances, I wish fortune to find you.”

“Fortune has. It brought me you,” John confessed. He stood slowly and supported her to her feet. Without further conversation, they gathered their purchases and made their way to where Mr. Hawkins waited with the coach.

“This day will remain one of my most favorite memories.” She slipped her hand about his elbow. “Thank you, my Lord.”

“As it will be mine also,” he whispered close to her ear. “I cannot tell you how your presence has lightened my heart.”

On the return to the inn, they did not speak nor were words exchanged as he escorted her to her door. “I will call upon you so we might dine together.” He lifted the back of her ungloved hand to his lips to kiss it.

“Might we dine in my quarters rather than to go below?” she asked on a breathy rasp.

“Are you certain?” Her gaze met his and held, and John brought the hand he still held to rest above his heart. A man could become lost in the honey cinnamon of her eyes. His blood rushed to his manhood.

“Never so much so as now,” she whispered.

John opened the door to hold it for her. As much as he wished to extend his time with her, he was not of the nature to press his desires upon another. She started past him, but paused to rise upon her toes to brush his mouth with hers. The domestic scene was all the invitation he required. John caught Isolde to him, claiming her mouth for the first time. His foot closed the door as he backed her into the room.

Her tenderness had caught his heart by surprise. In the span of a heartbeat, she had claimed him as hers. No matter what tomorrow would bring or how many years they would know separation, no one would ever replace her in his heart.

Her arms rose to encircle his neck. He ran his tongue along the seam of Isolde’s mouth, and her lips parted after a brief hesitation. With the invitation of her willingness to accept him, John’s tongue swept the soft tissues of her mouth. The wet heat enflamed his desire, and he bent to lift her into his arms. Carrying her to the bed, he placed Isolde gently among the pillows, following her down, his mouth never leaving hers. She was everything he had ever desired: innocent, but accepting; ladylike, but passionate.

John broke the contact in a breathy pause as he ran his fingers through the loosened strands of her chignon. “Your hair is luxurious. It is as soft as I imagined.” He placed a line of kisses from her temple to her neck before his mouth slid down the column of her throat. He sucked at the point where Isolde’s neck met her shoulder, and the lady squirmed in desire against him. John grew harder still.

He had never wanted a woman more than he did this one, but his honor had entered the room with him. He gently stroked her cheek. “God, Isolde,” he groaned. “I want you with the deepest passion a man can possess, but I cannot steal your virtue. I hold you with the deepest regard, and you are too precious to me. Yet, if you will trust me, I would introduce you to pleasure.”

“I would trust you with my life, my Lord.”

With her innocent invitation, John kissed her again. A sizzling kiss of desire. His. Hers. Theirs. She had learned quickly, their tongues danced with a primitive heat. “Please,” he groaned in a tight-lipped hiss. “Permit me to touch you. To know the scent of you imprinted upon my soul.”

Their eyes cleaved. It was wonderfully fulfilling to be lying beside her. This woman looked into the deepest recesses of his being and accepted what she discovered there. “For one night I wish to belong to you, John Swenton.”

*

It had been the most incredible night of his life. Although he had known his fair share of women over the years, John had never been privy to such exquisite intimacy, and it was more than simply thinking upon the way he had touched Isolde and having been touched by her in return. He meant the manner in which they spoke to each other of family and of dreams and of hopes for the future. Of endearments and of heated desires.

Good to his word, John had refused to deflower the lady, but that particular fact did not mean he had not brought her to the pinnacle of desire. He had kissed every inch of her, from the curve of Isolde’s spine and across the full of her hips to the inside of the lady’s long legs. When his lips had brushed her most private part, she had arched high from the bed, and John had experienced pure pride in claiming an incomparable woman.

He had brought her to completion three times, and she him once. When her fingers had closed about his manhood, John had fought not to explode instantly. “I do not know how to please a man,” she had whispered against his chest as her fingertip gently stroked the velvety head of his erection. “On separate occasions, I have walked in upon each of my brothers touching himself in pleasure, but you must teach me how it goes.”

John could feel the heat of her blush of embarrassment, but he spoke only encouragement. Through a fog of desire, he had told Isolde how her touch affected him; then he had directed her efforts into a rhythmic stroke of passion. Even without entering her body, John had enjoyed every second of those hours in her bed.

“You must promise me,” she had said after he had released his seed into a damp towel he had used earlier to clean her. “You shall return to Marwood and make a genuine effort to build a life with Lady Swenton.” John had not forgotten his irascible wife, but his thoughts dwelt more on how he might free himself from his marriage. “Your lady can make you happy if you permit Lady Swenton the time to mature.” She stroked the sweaty hair from John’s forehead.

“My wife may have a different opinion once Prince Henrí calls.” In many ways, John had hoped Satiné would choose to leave with the foreign prince. If so, he would swallow his pride and ask his associates at the Home Office to assist him in a Parliamentary divorce.

She shook her head of fiery locks. “Lady Swenton shall know more trials, and she shall require a sensible man to lead her through the chaos. Do not, even with what we have shared this evening, abandon her.” Isolde had lowered her head to rest it upon his shoulder. “I am a Catholic, my Lord, and we do not believe in divorce or living without the bonds of marriage. I should never have permitted the liberties we have shared.”

“Do you regret our time together?” he asked in concern.

“Never,” she declared adamantly. “But I cannot continue beyond this one night. Our relationship will end with the dawn. When you return to York, do so with a welcoming heart.”

*

Isolde had known little sleep for she had been determined to fill one day with a lifetime of memories, and even without sleep, exhilaration encompassed her heart. She had spent the previous sixteen hours as the object of Lord Swenton’s regard, and her heart would never be the same. She had known the love of her life. Isolde held no girlish dreams of a “knight,” who would rescue her foolish love, claiming it as his own. Reality said she would eventually discover a man to whom she would entrust her protection, but never one to whom she could present her heart. John Swenton had previously stolen that part of her soul.

“Good morning, Doctor Timmons.” She placed a determined smile upon her lips. She and Lord Swenton had agreed when they separated in the night’s middle that they would not see each other again. The thought of never knowing Lord Swenton again left a gaping hole in Isolde’s chest, but she was certain seeing her father to health would heal what she would be lacking in His Lordship’s company.

“Miss Neville.” The man rose slowly. He was weary from his work. Isolde would see him fit also as a means to thank Doctor Timmons for his dedication to her father. He glanced over her shoulder. “No Baron Swenton as your escort today?”

She set her shoulders in a stiff line. “Lord Swenton means to return to York. His wife is ill and cannot be long left unattended.”

“His wife?” Timmons did a poor job of hiding his surprise. “I thought Lord Swenton completely devoted to your welfare.”

Despite the absurdity of the physician’s words, Isolde found them comforting. “Until His Lordship escorted me to Newcastle, I was in his employ as his wife’s companion. We often shared the duties of the baroness’s care. I am forever grateful for his condescension; he is an excellent master.”

Doctor Timmons’s eyebrow rose in skepticism, but he spoke no more of her unusual connection to Lord Swenton. “I am certain you are most anxious to reunite with your father. Come along. The lad and I have scrubbed the infirmary and have burned the soiled linens. The patients have also been washed and dressed for a lady’s visit. Later, I will set you several tasks, but for now Mr. Neville requires the company of a most cherished daughter.”

John had waited for her to depart for the small hospital before he left his room. He had watched Isolde make her way along the busy street, his heart knowing the regret of losing her. Gathering his beaver and gloves, he thought again of his promise to send the remainder of her belongings on to her. “You have been a foolish man,” he chastised as he stepped away from the window. “Doing so will mark the end of what might have been.” Sighing with resignation, John purposely sought out the innkeeper to pay the man a month’s rent for Miss Neville’s room and meals. “The lady’s father is very ill,” he had explained. “If she requires an extended stay or if Mr. Neville requires time to recuperate before returning to his home, you will permit the expense without question. Contact me at Marwood Manor, and I will attend to the bill.” He slipped his card across the counter to the man. As he and other Realm agents often used the inn, John expected no objections.

“And if the lady departs before the month expires?”

John returned his purse to an inside pocket. “The difference remains in your coffers.”

The innkeeper presented him a curt nod of approval in parting, but when John turned to depart, the approach of Marcus Wellston stalled his response.

“It is you,” the Earl of Berwick said with a comfortable smile. Ignoring the required courtesies, the earl caught John about the shoulder. “I cannot believe my good fortune. Lady Yardley and I set out two days prior for York in hopes of reuniting with the countess’s twin.” Wellston glanced quickly about the entrance. “Is the baroness still above stairs? Cashémere is tending to the twins and will be down soon.”

Unconsciously, John winced. “Lady Swenton remains in York. I escorted the baroness’s lady’s companion to Newcastle. Miss Neville’s father is in a local hospital.” He offered no explanation as to why it was necessary for him to serve as Miss Neville’s escort, and thankfully, Wellston did not inquire of the unusual circumstances.

They stepped into the private parlor. “Do you return to York today? I would be pleased for a bit of male company,” the earl confessed.

John would wish not to offer an explanation, but Yardley and his countess deserved the truth. “Perhaps you should inform the countess of a delay in your journey. We should speak honestly regarding the baroness.”

Wellston frowned noticeably, but he responded with a nod of affirmation. “We will break our fast together. From your serious expression, I suspect we may be longer than I anticipated.”

When the earl returned some five minutes later, he slid silently into the chair across from John. As if rehearsed, both men picked up their utensils and concentrated upon the meal before them. For several minutes, neither of them spoke, and John was grateful for the normalcy of their continued friendship. Finally, John faced the inevitable; he placed his knife across the lip of the plate. “I do not think it is wise for you and Lady Yardley to call upon my baroness.”

Wellston wiped his mouth with his serviette. “And why should the countess be denied her sister’s company?”

John leaned heavily into his chair. “Mine is a long tale of woe.”

The earl shoved his plate to the side. “Even so, I would hear it.”

And so John had confessed it all, even spoke of his fears regarding his wife’s health and Satiné’s dependence upon laudanum. Somewhere in the story’s middle, Lady Yardley had sneaked into the room. She had sat, without comment, throughout John’s explanation.

“As Prince Henrí means to call upon my household tomorrow, it is best if you are not guests at Marwood to witness my shame or that of Lady Swenton.”

The countess scowled. “When I remained with Uncle Charles, I understood Stainé’s ways for she had received the superior education; and I took amused note of how Satiné thought herself above me, but I never suspected she thought herself above Velvet also. Even so, I would never have imagined Satiné to risk everything for a title.”

“My position is inferior, as am I,” John protested stubbornly.

“Nonsense!” Lady Yardley declared. “You are my husband’s dearest friend and one of the finest men of my acquaintance. Your actions on the glass cone has secured your worth with me.”

Wellston asked what John had expected, “What does Pennington and Sir Carter think of the situation?”

John heaved a sorrowful sigh. “You should know I have refused to speak to either regarding my circumstances.”

“Why ever for?” the earl demanded.

John shot a glance to the countess. Wellston’s lady stood slowly. “I should return to the children. Please entertain the earl’s questions completely, Baron. My husband is an irascible bear when he is perplexed.”

John followed her to his feet. “I recall the earl’s stubborn insistence most vividly, my Lady.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “There are many parts of my current marital situation to which I object, but never one concerning a connection to such an excellent lady.”

“I owe you my life, Lord Swenton, and like my husband, I trust your judgment where Satiné is concerned.” She squeezed Wellston’s hand affectionately. “Before you depart, please come above stairs and meet the earl’s heirs. My husband is quite proud of siring two children at once. I have not told him it was all my doing.”

John chuckled. “Your secret is safe with me, Countess.”

“And yours are with me, Baron,” she said pointedly before disappearing from the room.

When he and Wellston had resumed their seats, John fought the desire to squirm under the earl’s steady gaze. “Lady Swenton,” he began tentatively, “sold one of my mother’s diamond and emerald pieces. Lexford, by chance, observed her doing so and reported the situation to Pennington. Evidently, Her Ladyship’s actions have also come under the notice of Murhad Jamot. Because the emerald brooch was part of a set, I am being investigated for the theft of Mir’s emerald.”

“Balderdash!” Wellston declared vehemently. “I have never heard of such nonsense! Surely someone has erred. You are one of the most upright men of my acquaintance, and I mean to tell Pennington as such.”

“Do not cloud your record with the Home Office in defense of mine,” John warned. “I am accustomed to traveling through the world alone.” In the past, when he had made similar declarations, John had not known the constrictions in his throat. Today, he had witnessed how alone he truly was when Isolde Neville had disappeared from his life.

“You think I give a care what Pennington believes. I judge men on their merits.” The earl leaned forward to press his point. “Undoubtedly, there are some means to prove Pennington has erred. What do you recall of that day in Persia?”

John scowled before releasing an impatient breath. “Other than Fowler’s customary impetuousness.”

Wellston’s lips compressed. “Bear with me. I know you the most observant of our unit. Tell me what caught your notice before the melee broke out.”

John confessed, “My absence from the main tent was part of the reason Sir Carter has placed blame at my door.” When the earl offered no commentary, John closed his eyes to search for the memory. “Each of Mir’s men had taken his turn with Ashmita except for one.”

The earl whispered so as to keep the memory private. “Jamot. None of us had noticed the Baloch’s reluctance until you brought that fact to our attentions. It was Ashmita who later confirmed Jamot meant to wed her before Mir had turned the girl into the camp whore because of an insolent remark Ashmita made, which Mir termed as questioning his leadership.”

A restless search for the truth coursed through John’s veins. He had looked for the connection more than once, each time without success. “Jamot’s fists curled and uncurled as often as did Fowler’s. Every time Ashmita called out in pain, the Baloch recoiled in response, and when Talpur claimed his turn with the girl, Jamot’s countenance spoke of Talpur’s betrayal.”

“They were friends,” Wellston confirmed. “Always sitting together. Likely, the others goaded Talpur into participating. His actions, however, created a chasm between him and Jamot.”

John’s tone was gruff. “I had it worked out in my head Jamot meant to save the girl, and so when he disappeared from the main tent, I followed. As Mir’s men watched us as carefully as we did them, I pretended to seek the privacy of the surrounding hillside for my personal needs when, in reality, I sought a higher elevation where I could spy on the camp. I specifically searched for the distinctive yellow turban Jamot wore in camp, but he was nowhere to be found, and so I reluctantly returned to the main tent, meaning to share my suspicions with Kerrington, but Fowler’s knighthood had arrived, and we were in a death fight.”

Wellston’s jaw closed hard. “The yellow cloth,” he said as if he shared John’s memory. “I recall how we found amusement in the Baloch’s wearing such a showy headpiece.”

John confided, “I thought Jamot had finally succumbed to his desire for the girl or had found the courage to put an end to Ashmita’s suffering and shame, but he was not the one Fowler killed when the duke entered the girl’s tent. In fact, during the skirmish, Jamot never made an appearance. At least, not until we had made our escape. He was a coward several times over.”

“But he was there,” the earl insisted. “I saw Jamot running from the tent in which Mir had imprisoned Ashmita. He was running toward the women’s quarters. As he offered no opposition, at the time, I ignored him. Perhaps, Mir chose Jamot as his agent in England as punishment for the Baloch’s cowardice.”

“And sent Talpur as Jamot’s partner for not stopping Fowler from reaching Ashmita’s tent.”

Something bleak crossed Lord Yardley’s countenance. “We are missing an important fact as to the question of who stole Mir’s jewel.”

“Pennington has suggested my absence provided me the opportunity to enter Mir’s tent to remove the stone.”

The earl said sarcastically, “And your supposed motive?”

John smiled wryly. “To ply my mother with jewels to earn Lady Fiona’s love. Few know my father had attempted to encourage her return with a variety of jewels, and he most certainly failed. I never sought the former baroness’s love, only her recognition.”

“Such nonsense!” Wellston declared. “None of us even knew of the emerald’s existence until Jamot and Talpur arrived on our shore. Why would you risk searching Mir’s tent in hopes of discovering an emerald for your mother? I have never heard of anything so ridiculous! Pennington and Sir Carter have spent too much time drenched in Lord Sidmouth’s paranoia.”

It did John’s heart well to hear Wellston’s protests. When Pennington had questioned him regarding the emerald. John’s indignation had blinded him to what all he had shared with his Realm friends. “We will both consider the possibilities. If you concoct a logical scenario, you will send me a post.”

Wellston grumbled, “I will also send Pennington a not so carefully worded letter containing my thoughts on this matter.”

“For now, I mean to look kindly upon Margaret and Lionel Wellston before I set out for York.” John led the way to the main stairs.

The earl’s countenance fell. “What will you do about my wife’s sister?”

Isolde’s plea came readily to John’s mind. “What is there to do but to carve out a bit of happiness? Satiné is likely never to love me, not as Lady Yardley does you, but I have made a promise to see her content.”

*

It was late when he had reached his estate–so late John had instructed his driver not to stop at the main house: He had walked from the stables to enter his manor through the kitchen. Inside, he paused to set his resolve. Never again would Isolde enter his home. Never again would her laughter fill the air as she entertained the estate children. Never again would he smell the spicy oil, which marked her as unique among the women of the
ton.
During his journey from Northumberland, John had relived yesterday repeatedly. Every detail. Every word. His would be a barren existence in comparison to those few hours of joy he had shared with Isolde. The thought of begetting an heir upon Satiné brought a soft revolt to John’s stomach. Yet, he possessed no choice. It was his responsibility to see the Swenton line continued in the barony. Somehow, he must convince Satiné to remain with him and act the part of his baroness.

“At least, Prince Henrí has made no claims upon Satiné. Only upon the child.”

Satisfied he was doing the honorable thing, John turned to the servants’ stairs to make his way to his quarters. Tomorrow, he would face Prince Henrí and attempt to convince Satiné to release the boy and remain with him. The more he thought on it, the less convinced John was as to the prince’s desire for John’s baroness. Obviously, if Prince Henrí had wished Satiné’s return, the baroness would have joined the man long before John had appeared in Vienna. However, from his diplomatic experience with European royalty, he realized illegitimate heirs were often accepted as equals. The prince would welcome Rupert’s presence in his life.

He entered his room in a state of pure dudgeon. He had lost the one woman he knew he could love wholly, perhaps even to the American doctor, who John had thought looked too kindly upon Isolde’s fine countenance. To complicate matters, he had a scheduled encounter with his wife’s former lover, and John had distanced himself from the only friends he had ever cultivated. Ripping the knot from his limp cravat, John tossed the cloth upon the back of a chair. He could have awakened Mr. Mission to assist him, but John was too exhausted by his life to bother his valet. Instead, he stripped away his jacket before sitting wearily in one of the velvet-covered chairs to remove his boots. It was then he heard it–the rumble of voices coming from his wife’s suite. Could Mr. Coyle be treating Satiné so late in the evening? Had his baroness experienced a setback?