The painting was magnificent. From the petals on the roses, to the individual blades of grass, to the horses grazing off in the distance, each precise stroke of his brush had
been exhaustively applied, the combined effect so charming she could scarcely bear to gaze upon it.
Positioned in the center, she was at the stairs of the gazebo, leaning against the rail. Smiling gaily, she peered off to the side as if someone she liked very much had just called to her from a location outside the picture.
She'd known how he'd depict her—what she'd be wearing, how her hair would be arranged—but still, she was humbled and astonished upon witnessing how Gabriel perceived hen fetching, vibrant, and so very pretty. There were no other words to describe his portrayal, and she couldn't tear herself away.
Before she'd met him, she'd been so boring and conventional, yet he'd seen something in her, something of the real woman who'd been lurking beneath the layers, and he'd succeeded in transforming her.
Despite the damage his presence had wrought, she'd liked how confident she'd grown to be under his tutelage, and she wouldn't have modified a minute of her experience—except mayhap the conclusion. If only she could bring that dynamic, interesting woman back to the surface!
Turning, she chanced to catch her reflection in the mirror. For the first time in weeks, she took a full assessment. She was pale and washed out, her skin wan, her hair dull and lifeless. And she'd lost so much weight! When had that happened? Her gown sagged where it had been designed to fit tight and snug.
Grieving...
one of the maids had once whispered when the girl had wrongly assumed Elizabeth to be napping. The servant had uttered the term as a mode of explicating what ailed Elizabeth, and the appraisal was valid.
For so long, Elizabeth hadn't been able to eat or sleep. Some mornings, she'd been too traumatized to rise from her bed, too heartbroken to face the day, and she was finally forced to accept that she'd been mourning, despairing over her loss of Gabriel.
Well, the man wasn't dead! She needn't pine away as though she'd never see him again! At this very moment, were she brave enough, she could pack a bag and journey to London.
"And what would you do once you arrived?" she queried of the silent room.
Such whimsy! Such idiocy! Would she never learn from her mistakes? Gabriel couldn't want her after all that had occurred. Hadn't he just dropped his leftover mementos into her lap like so much discarded rubbish?
She moved to sit on the sofa, and her thoughts were chaotic. The packet of his sketches beckoned to her, and she couldn't resist tearing at the wrapping. She peeled it away and gaped at the topmost drawing in the stack, then the next, and the next.
About halfway through the pile, she blundered upon one of Gabriel, and she was stunned. She'd forgotten that he'd placed himself in some of the pictures. He was standing behind her, mostly hidden, and she could just make out a cheek, a shoulder, an arm. Rapidly, she searched through the rest, hunting for the ones in which he was included, and she spread them on the table so that she could examine them.
The most erotic drawings were absent, and he'd only transmitted those where he was in the background. Still, he looked so extraordinary!
Distractedly, she traced across a sketch, while she tried to deduce why he'd sent them. Had he wanted her to have them as a keepsake? Did he
not
want them himself? If so, why had he kept some and not others?
Off to the side, Mary's letter lay unopened, and she picked it up and flicked across the seal. While she'd hoped for a lengthy communication filled with gossip and pithy chatter, it was extremely concise, as if she'd drafted it in a hurry.
I miss you, and I've been so worried. Please write to let me know how you are. In case your situation with your father has deteriorated, you're welcome to stay with me. For as long as you like.
The kind tidings, the extension of a haven, were her undoing. Of late, she'd been so tormented, so self-centered, that she hadn't conjectured as to how Mary had weathered the loathsome ordeal, or how she'd emerged from it. She'd been with them on the sidewalk, watching all, then Elizabeth had virtually disappeared, so she was probably imagining all sorts of dire scenarios.
There was a postscript under her signature.
Gabriel is well. He's come home after an extended holiday at the shore. John is relieved.
How sneaky of her! To blithely hint at Gabriel! How dangerous of her to clarify his whereabouts!
The perilous report leapt up off the page, producing a surge of inexplicable, absurd longing for the knave. Oh, to see him again! To hear his beautiful voice! What enchantment he'd brought to her. What mystery and joy.
How she missed it. How she missed him!
Giddy over her rekindled prospects, she was suffused with more animation than she'd felt in weeks—nay months! She jumped up and commenced pacing.
While she might have just become rich, might have the world by the tail, without Gabriel, she had nothing. Formerly, she'd risked everything, had gambled for a future she craved, but she'd let it slide through her fingers.
Where had that intrepid woman gone? She was still about, wasn't she?
Once, she'd brazenly grabbed for her heart's desire. Could she dare so much again?
Chapter Twenty-three
Findley glared across at his wife and mother-in-law. A more dour, disagreeable pair he never hoped to encounter.
How was it that he'd so quickly progressed from sharing a table with pleasant-natured, interesting Elizabeth, to this?
Charlotte's mother had taken up residence. Although he wasn't sure when the horrid woman had arrived, he suspected she'd been on the premises for an extended period. However, he would never lower himself to ask Charlotte for clarification, because he wouldn't want to give the impression that he was overly curious as to her affairs.
He and Charlotte rarely spoke. Since the day she'd gleefully apprised him of Elizabeth's shame, he'd made it a point to absent himself as much as he could, coming home late at night solely to effect the unpalatable task of seeing to his matrimonial duty.
Who could have ever predicted that having sexual relations with such a stunning beauty could be unappetizing? The notion of mating with her had become so distasteful that he could barely maintain a cockstand long enough to do the deed! Himself! When he'd always had the stamina of a bull!
Her mother was too ensconced in her chair for his liking, lording it over the salon as though she owned the bloody place. She was eyeing the furnishings in a manner he didn't care for, either, checking out various items as though assessing their value.
Two footmen were serving the meal, and she barked at their every move until they were trembling, nervous wrecks. Whenever one of them approached, he shifted out of range, positive that her incessant harping would eventually cause one of them to drop a ladle of gravy or spill the wine into his lap.
A man's digestive system couldn't function properly with such constant sniping, and he was just ready to make that clear when the disagreeable woman broke the tense silence.
"Milord, if I might request a word with you after supper."
"I can't think of a single topic about which we need to converse."
"It involves your daughter."
He set his spoon beside his plate and peered at her so malevolently that she shrank back, not as assured as she had been moments earlier. "What about her?"
"Charlotte has heard a rumor among the staff that she might be planning to return to London."
The information was accurate. He'd received a note from the butler at Norwich that very afternoon citing the possibility. While he was encouraged that Elizabeth had recovered sufficiently to resume her former life, he still hadn't figured out how to reinstate her in their London town house.
Furious that Charlotte—or her mother—would feel the matter was open to discussion, he nastily inquired, "What has that to do with you? Or my wife?"
"Well, we ... that is, I... well... it's downright barbarous to subject Charlotte to Lady Elizabeth's wicked influence."
"The two of you have the gall to mention Elizabeth to me?" He threw his napkin, then stood so rapidly that his chair tipped, and one of the footmen jumped for it before it crashed to the floor. Both women scrutinized him apprehensively. "Charlotte, proceed to your room."
"I don't wish to be excused," she petulantly replied.
Where did she come by that disrespectful mouth?
"Did I ask your opinion?” He walked over to her, grabbed her arm, and lifted her to her feet "Don't make me tell you again. Go upstairs and arrange yourself. I'll be up shortly."
"What do you intend to say to Mother?”
"None of your damned business!" he hissed, his ire spiking to a new height.
Grasping the back of her neck, he physically shoved her toward the door, as her mother gasped. Good! Let her witness the horrid scene! Let her see what an impertinent, insolent daughter she'd raised! They were fortunate he didn't take a whip to Charlotte, then and mere.
Charlotte glowered at him, that mulish expression he hated marring her pretty features, then she stomped off. He waited until her steps had faded, then he whirled to face his present nemesis. She boldly stared him down with a mutinous sneer that was an exact replica of her daughter's.
"Madam," he started, for he couldn't recall her name, "I assume you are here because your daughter invited you. But your welcome has been revoked. By me."
"What? I'm not to be allowed to visit with Charlotte?”
"You'll depart in the morning. If you're not gone by ten o'clock, I'll have your bags packed and tossed out on the stoop. Do we understand one another?"
She hesitated, a hundred insults fermenting on the tip of her tongue, but wisely, she chose not to voice them.
"Well, I never!" she huffed and stormed out.
He tarried until he was satisfied that he wouldn't chance upon her in the hall, then he went to the stairs, climbing slowly, his legs like lead ballast, thoughts of Elizabeth weighing him down.
His worries about her, and her melancholia, perpetually vexed him. Had he done the right thing? Made the correct decisions?
Considering how badly it had ended, he wasn't convinced that he'd handled it well.
Where was Mary when he was desperate for her counsel and advice? She'd abandoned him to his fate, not caring a whit for the fact that he'd always needed her. He still did.
Since she'd left him for John Preston, he'd only seen her on that lone occasion when he'd chased after Elizabeth as she'd run off to question Cristofore. The resulting spectacle had been so dreadful, Elizabeth so disturbed, that there'd been no opportunity for so much as a hello. Afterward, he'd been too proud to contact her, so he couldn't be confident as to her condition in her new situation.
He brooded over her sometimes, wondered about her life with Preston. Was she happy with the bed she'd made for herself? Did she ever regret that she'd forsaken him for another?
If only she'd been available to soothe him during the persisting trauma, to persuade him that he'd behaved appropriately!
Because of her defection, he'd been compelled to take a mistress, but he'd stuck to the modern trend, picking out a girl who was attractive and vivacious, who would look fetching on his arm at social events, so it had turned out that she wasn't much older than Charlotte.
It was increasingly evident that she possessed his wife's penchant for inane chatter and frivolity. Though he would call upon her later, after he'd finished with the chore of copulating with Charlotte, the pending appointment brought none of the relief or joy he'd perpetually found with Mary. There was no consolation to be had in his youthful paramour's arms.
He entered his bedchamber and closed the door. In the adjacent dressing room, he could hear Charlotte rummaging about, and he grimaced. He abhorred being near her, yet he couldn't avoid copulation. Her impregnation was paramount.
Pouring himself a bracing drink, he swigged it down, then went to join her. Knocking once, he intruded into her feminine enclave, and he was immediately and vastly irritated to discover that she was fully clothed and primping in the mirror at her vanity. As he insisted on executing the unsavory fornications as swiftly as possible, he mandated that she disrobe in advance, that she array herself naked on her bed, so there'd be no time wasted in pursuing the act to its natural conclusion.
"Why aren't you ready?"
She scowled at him over her shoulder. "For what?”
"To perform your marital obligation."
"You can't be serious! It's hardly past eight."
"I'm going out, and I'll be detained for many hours, so I'll have you now."
"Well, I'm not in the mood."
Effectively dismissing him, she stuck her pert little nose up in the air and studied herself in the mirror, crunching and fluffing at her blond curls. While she'd habitually shown scant deference for his authority, recently she'd grown more incorrigible, and it was imperative that she be reminded of her subordinate position.
"You will accommodate me."
"How dare you barge in here and command me about!" Enraged, she rose and spun toward him. "After the way you treated my mother! Compelling me to reside under the same roof with your whore of a daughter!"
He slapped her as viciously as he could, shutting her up with a single blow. She fell to her knees, and he experienced a thrilling, manly rush at having her so indisposed. His phallus filled, and he was elated that—for once—he'd be able to accomplish his climax with limited effort.
"Undo my trousers."
"I won't!" she said, prolonging her rebellion.
He slapped her again, inducing her to sniffle and weep. Ignoring her whimpering, he worked at the buttons himself, until his cock was indecently exposed. Her distress was such that she hadn't noticed what he was about, so he easily clasped her by the neck and, in mid-wail, impaled himself in her mouth.
She struggled and fought, endeavoring to push him away, but he refused to grant her any quarter. He thrust, harshly, propelling her against the wall, and her head banged with each flex of his hips. Her exertions excited him, her resistance sharpening his arousal, so he delayed longer than he normally would have then, in a hot torrent, he orgasmed in her throat.
He held her until she swallowed, then he retreated, and she collapsed onto the floor, gulping for air, huge tears coursing down her mottled cheeks.
She detested giving him the French kiss, but after how he'd brooked her endless attitudes, his dislike of her was so intense that he declined to show her any courtesy. There was no more offensive deed he could commit against her, and in his current state of elevated disapproval, he reveled in the insult.
"Whenever you sass me from now on"—he languidly reassembled his privates and fixed his pants—"you will service me in this fashion. With your obstinate disposition, I imagine it will only take a few dozen times for you to learn to curb your impudent tongue."
She grumbled a remark that sounded like, "Bastard—"
Incensed, he leaned over her, and gripped a fistful of her hair, shaking her as one might a recalcitrant dog. "If you haven't conceived in six more months, I'm filing for divorce on the grounds of your infertility. In light of my rigorous attempts, and your blatant barrenness, I'm sure my peers will be most sympathetic. I'll have our sham of a marriage dissolved like that!"
With a crude snap of his fingers, he strutted out, pleased with how he'd reasserted himself as lord of the manor.
As he washed up and prepared to depart for a rendezvous with his mistress, he heard Charlotte vomiting up his seed. She was forbidden from voiding her stomach after sex, so he thought about confronting her and beating her for her effrontery, but with his cock having been sated, his anger had waned, and he couldn't locate the necessary mettle to discipline her further.
Feeling smug, and in control of his domain, he exited into the corridor and marched down the stairs.
Charlotte huddled on the floor, sweating and crying, while exhaustively reviewing every curse word in her vocabulary.
"Bastard!" she repeated viciously, and a perverse smile crossed her lips. She'd muttered the very same in his presence, and she was exceptionally proud of herself that she'd had the nerve.
How could he deign to mistreat her! To abuse her so crudely and roughly. She hated him for it!
With her mother's arrival, believing she'd found a commiserating ear, she'd confessed some of the horrid acts her husband forced her to perform. Instead of empathy, the older woman had declared that Charlotte had to put up with whatever he desired, that once he'd slipped the ring on her finger, she'd agreed to comply with any of his demands—in spite of how loathsome they might be.
Well, her mother's opinion be damned. He didn't have the right!
She shuddered and, using the chair for balance, she faltered to her feet and stumbled to the mirror where she could appraise her appearance. Her hair was mussed, her eyes red, and her cheek swollen from where he'd struck her. It throbbed painfully. He'd slapped her before, even sporadically hitting her with his belt, but never had mere been such vehemence behind the blow.
All that outrage had been directed at her merely because she'd risked referring to his precious Elizabeth! His perfect, well-bred, affable, jezebel of a daughter! Charlotte would never forget the foul, sordid things she'd observed Elizabeth doing with her repugnant, common lover.
Why, Elizabeth had fled London in shame! Her reputation sullied beyond repair! Her disgrace had been a potential monumental humiliation for Charlotte, yet the earl pranced about as if Elizabeth had done nothing wrong. How he carried on! He was deluding himself and others, pretending that Elizabeth had contracted a grave illness and was gradually recovering. He couldn't bear to admit that his impeccable dove had been irrevocably soiled!
To think that he held Charlotte in such contempt that he would require her to fraternize with the fallen woman! When Charlotte had unveiled his wretched scheme, her mother had been in a high dudgeon, but not even the intimidating matron could dissuade him from permitting Elizabeth's return.
So far, Charlotte had told no one about Elizabeth's ignominy, abiding by the earl's dictate that she remain silent. His affection for Elizabeth was so strong that Charlotte had been afraid of what he might do if she tattled. If word of Elizabeth's carnal escapade was leaked, he would promptly deduce that the divulgence had come from Charlotte, so she'd been reticent, but perhaps she should reevaluate her prior decision. The entire world ought to be informed of Elizabeth's tainted nature.