The Rake and the Recluse REDUX (a time travel romance) (54 page)

“Why? Why, you ask? Because we paid for you. You are here as his betrothed, to be his subservient wife and acquiesce to his bidding, and to bear my grandson, who will assume the earldom when he dies.”

Francine shrank into the bedcovers as she stared at her.

“You have no other purpose,” his mother said simply as she gave her leg one final shake, then turned her loose. “You would do well to learn your place more expediently, you arrogant girl.”

Francine nodded at the woman as she sank farther into the golden-embroidered counterpane in shock. The mother moved away from the bed, saying something to Morgan. Francine curled up, grasping her knees to her already compressed torso as she tried to conquer the heaving, dry sobs that wracked her body. She looked up from the bed at the shower room and saw her lady’s maid, her face red and tear-streaked, cowering in the doorway. The maid shook her head quickly and ducked out of sight.

The door to her room slammed and she rolled over to see Morgan approaching the bed. His hands reached out to her as he leaned over the bed and she screamed, all her breath leaving her body as she lost consciousness.

She started to come around with the sound of a voice. “Oh, milady,” the maid whispered. “I beg ye, please, don’t let them hurt ye. Ye would’na believe some o’ the goings on ‘ere. Please, milady, are ye all right?”

Francine stared at her, still unable to breathe fully.

The maid shifted slightly, allowing Francine to see Morgan standing behind her. A warning.

Francine reached down to her ankle and winced at the flash of pain. When she pulled her hand back, it was bloody. Her head fell to the pillow as the girl tended to her, using a cool rag on her face, smearing more of the thick brown salve around her ankle, trying again to care for her wounds.

Francine wasn’t requested at supper that night; she spent the rest of the day tied into her corset, trying desperately to recover from lack of air.

The mother returned much later with the cup of tea. Francine drank it quickly, against the threat of pain and possibly hopeful of the respite, as the mother glared at her and Morgan wrapped his hand stiffly around her leg. The mother left without a word and the maid stood her up, took the dress off, and loosed the corset. Air rushed into her lungs with such force she grabbed for anything to hold her upright. The maid pulled the nightgown down over her head and helped her up into the bed. She barely had time to lie down on the pillow before she succumbed to the drugs.

Francine shifted under the counterpane the next morning, the puddle of drool under her chin cold. She sat up halfway, looking around the room as she shook her head against the heaviness. Morgan was asleep in a chair at the end of the bed.
Asleep
. The thought startled her to her senses. She stood, then began creeping toward the door. She opened it softly, but heard voices.

“Mother, the priest should be here soon. We only need to keep her occupied until then.”

“We are not here to entertain her, you buffoon. This situation is perfectly abhorrent. You are so inept you couldn’t control your own bride without me. I cannot believe my issue has become such an incompetent oaf. The earl is turning in his grave.” The words rolled across the old woman’s thin lips like a riptide.

“I am not incompetent. I
will
handle her. You
will
see,” came Hepplewort’s voice, small and whiny like a badly tuned violin.

Francine heard a pair of footsteps coming toward her room and ran over to the bed, jumping under the counterpane as she tried to calm her nerves and her heartbeat.

“Morgan, you are dismissed,” Hepplewort yelled.

Francine sat up.

Hepplewort turned and advanced on her like a spider to a fly and she felt equally trapped, shrinking back into the bed. A slow grin broke across his face as she considered her options. Perhaps she could sway him—after all, she did have something that he wanted rather desperately.

“My lord, it is rather untoward of you to visit my bedchamber before we are properly wed.” She forced a smile.

“Yes, well, I was of a mood.”

“A mood? Couldn’t your
mood
bring you back later?”

“You will find that I am much more genial in the mornings, when I haven’t dealt with certain tasks all day.”

She thought quickly. “Your mother can be quite—” She paused, gathering her strength to continue. “—
meddlesome
, my lord,” she finished, letting the words roll from her lips like an endearment. Her stomach physically turned in her gut, nausea rising toward her throat.

Hepplewort heard the stomach complaint. “You must be starved after yesterday. Mother believes you should be more slender, that it would make you more compliant. I, however, believe much the opposite. I will arrange for something,” he said as he rang the bell for her maid, then gave her instructions when she appeared.

The maid glanced around him with a concerned gaze before rushing from the room.

He turned back to Francine and she smiled demurely. “My lord, you are thoughtful. Should I dress to break our fast?”

His eyes glazed over her like molasses in March, sticking in all the wrong places.

“Or perhaps you prefer this flannel nightgown?” she asked quickly, trying to break his inspection.

He cleared his throat, glancing up into her eyes.

“Madeleine.” The name slithered off his tongue. “I would prefer you live in a nightgown at all hours, but
not
that one. Mother, of course, has your wedding trousseau, and after we are married you will be attired much more to my liking.” He licked the spittle from his lip.

He turned to the wardrobe, throwing aside several fluffy white dresses before finding a simple country sheath. It was fitted at the bosom with an empire waist, the folds of fabric falling from the breast and dusting the floor with a delicate ruffle.

She was excited. It was more Regency than Victorian and, while entirely out of fashion in this age, the style didn’t allow for a corset. The tightly fitted skirt would keep her legs together so she wouldn’t be able to walk a full stride, much less run, but at least she would be able to breathe.

She considered his indecisive stare as he stood before the wardrobe and decided to tip the scales. She sighed and rose to her feet. “Why, my lord, what a beautiful gown! It is quite reminiscent of an earlier time, when life was much simpler and women, including mothers, knew their places.” She walked toward him slowly.

“Yes...yes,” he said with longing.

She reached out, smoothing the fabric and inadvertently—with purpose—she brushed her knuckles across his hand.

“Exactly my thought. Women weren’t as…independent as they are these days.” His eyes darted to her. He smiled and handed her the gown. “Please, put this on,” he said, with a sickening sweetness.

She took it and glanced around the room.

“No, no, dear, right here. I may not have yet paid for the goods, but I certainly can browse.” His jowls pulled up in a grotesque version of a smile.

She covered her mouth with her hand, fluttering her eyelids at him.

“But, my lord—”

He frowned. “Why should Morgan and the maid be allowed to see but I can’t?” he whined.

She sensed she was losing his interest. “Of course, my lord,” she said, and grasped the nightgown at the waist to pull it up. She paused when her face was hidden to breathe deeply and tried to gather the courage to expose her body to him. She had to trust that he would stick to his morals, misguided and revolting as they might be.

She slid the gown over her head and reached for the dress.

“Wait—” He held his hand up. “You are a vision,” he drawled.

“My lord, the maid will be returning.”

“Yes, of course.” He snatched the gown from her hands and moved closer, gathering up the fabric. He smelled sickly sweet and she cringed. He tried to slide the dress over her head, but his jacket was too tight and she was too tall.

She crouched slightly and let him pull the dress down, running his knuckles across her skin as he yanked at the hem. She shuddered as his face drew close to the front of her body, his sour breath pelting her skin while it reacted to his touch. She held her breath, but the very air surrounding him was sour, making her gag.

“Thank you,” she said as genially as possible, glad that he didn’t notice her convulsing.

A knock sounded at the door. “Enter,” he grumbled.

The maid walked in with a large tray, her eyes wide with panic. She set the tray on a table next to the two overstuffed wingback chairs by the fireplace and moved to Francine, watching Hepplewort from the corner of her eye.

“Milord, shall I assist milady?”

He nodded and moved to the tray, picking up a piece of ham with his portly fingers, tearing it apart in his stained, crooked teeth. His chin was covered with grease as he reached for another slice, not waiting to finish the first.

The girl fastened the placket of buttons at Francine’s back and went to the wardrobe, pulling out stockings, garters, and drawers. She helped Francine dress, doing her utmost to keep her covered from Hepplewort’s stare, then she reached for a pair of brown calfskin ankle boots. Blocking his sight with her small body, she carefully pulled them over Francine’s feet and fastened the buttons up the sides slowly, trying to avoid too much pain from the rope cuts.

The girl patted the toe of the boots. “There ye are, miss. These’re comfortable slippers, but if you and milord choose to go outside the manor to view the gardens, ye should be careful in the deep grass, and ye certainly shouldn’t venture into the wood without better shoes. The wildflowers are bloomin’, milord.” She glanced up with pleading eyes, pulling Francine’s hem down tightly over her toes. “The ones by the northern gardens.”

Francine nodded in thanks while Hepplewort smiled at the lascivious thoughts of the two girls dancing through his head. “Hmmm. We’ll see what Mother has to say,” he hedged.

Francine pouted, running her hand over his brocade lapel. “Your mother doesn’t want us to do anything until we are married. How are we to get to know each other if we are to be kept apart, or together only here in the manor under her vigilant eye?”

His eyes bulged and he swallowed hard.

Francine moved closer to Hepplewort, cautious to keep her boots from view. “I would love to see your estate, my lord. I imagine you have beautiful lands and gardens. I daresay you must be quite adept with a phaeton as well, judging from the way you carry yourself.” She smiled, the picture of innocence.

“You!” he snapped at the maid. “Have the groom prepare the phaeton, and make sure there’s a basket included for luncheon. It’s a lovely day for a picnic, and I do need to keep my fiancée occupied until the priest arrives.” He turned to Francine. “I could show you the estate,” he continued with a devious grin.

The girl nodded and curtseyed, hesitating momentarily before leaving them alone again.

“Well then. Let us break our fast and then you can show me your grand…estate.” She paused before enunciating the last word with a wide grin and as much of a sparkle as her soul would allow.

He gulped audibly and she pushed him to sit at the tray, falling immediately back into the role of innocent. She allowed him to feed her, pandering to his foibles. By the end of the meal he was sure to make their private excursion a reality, which she was glad of, but also terrified because she had lit a fire in him that she had no intention of stoking. She could only hope she could manage to get away before she was burned.

He escorted her downstairs, past the parlor where the mother was working on her basket of embroidery, and toward the front door. The butler walked up to him but Hepplewort waved him off. The butler looked down his nose at the short man and turned, striding toward the parlor as they left.

“How charming you are, my lord, and thoughtful to include a picnic,” she said, trying to hurry his movements.

He smiled up at her as she climbed into the phaeton, placing his hand on her rump, feigning assistance.

“Fergus! What is this?”

Francine froze like a deer in headlights.

“Mother.”

Francine gripped his sleeve.

“What are you doing?” she spat. “Where is Morgan?”

Hepplewort looked at his mother, surreptitiously removing his hand from Francine’s rear end. “I imagine he’s asleep in his room, since he was charged with standing vigil over my betrothed last night. As for what
we
are doing, I am going to show Madeleine around the estate.”

The wrinkled old woman’s eyes blazed. “You will do no such thing, you incessant twit,” she said as saliva sprang from her mouth.

Francine backed away, into the seat of the phaeton.

“Perhaps a picnic in the meadow,” Hepplewort sputtered.

“Sometimes I wonder where you came from. You quite obviously do not have my intelligence, or the earl’s. If I didn’t know better, I would say you belonged
on
the land, not in
charge
of it.”