Читать книгу The Wager - Sally Cheney - Страница 11
Chapter Three
ОглавлениеTo Marianne, her short lifetime seemed to be a succession of frightful nights. Endless nights spent waiting for Uncle Horace to return to the town house, fearfully wondering what abuse and indignity she would be required to endure this time. That ghastly night she had spent at her mother’s bedside, watching her become weaker and weaker, unable to do anything to overturn the awful verdict, to bar entrance to the merciless reaper.
But not even the memory of that night seemed as horrible as this night in Kingsbrook.
Marianne undressed slowly, careful to keep her eyes turned from the mirror, fearful of the physical evidence she would see of what had happened.
She pulled the green gown off her shoulders and dropped it to the floor at her feet. It lay in a crumpled heap, and automatically she picked it up and hung it in her closet, though she knew she could never bear to wear it again.
She removed her underthings, then poured some of the lukewarm water from her pitcher into the basin. She washed slowly, carefully, but not with any obsessive effort to cleanse herself. A tear rolled down her cheek as she told herself that was impossible now.
Her muscles were sore, owing to her struggle with the larger, stronger man. Her head ached and her breasts were tender. She did not feel a deeper, more intimate pain, but she was too distracted and too ignorant to wonder at that. Besides, more painful to her than any physical injury was her burning shame.
She pulled a long flannel nightgown from the drawer where Alice had put it earlier that afternoon. She slipped it over her head and then crawled between the sheets of her bed. She pulled the blankets up around her neck as if chilled by the cold of winter, though it was so far an unseasonably warm summer. The cold she felt was deeper and darker than any she had known before.
Marianne did not want to think about what had happened, but self-accusations swirled around in her head like feathers caught in a hurricane. What had she done to provoke such an assault? Nothing consciously or intentionally, that she could recall, but she had been so fascinated by him. She had been flattered by his attention, eager for his approval. Her admiring gaze had no doubt seemed provocative. She had probably leaned too far toward him as he spoke to her, or perhaps her eyes or the movement of her lips or hands could have been interpreted as an invitation.
She moaned softly and turned onto her side.
Her anguish was compounded because she was so lonely. There was no one here, no one in her life to whom she could turn for help and comfort. No one to advise her or give her any explanations. Marianne had to reach her own conclusions about everything, and she was a very young girl with a very limited field of reference.
All night long she tossed and turned, her brief snatches of sleep filled with dreams of strange longings, from which she awoke drenched in sweat and even further shamed.
But at long last the sun rose and began to climb higher in the sky. Wide-awake and uncomfortably warm, Marianne still lay abed, the blankets clutched to her chin.
When she had crawled into this bed last night, she had wished with all the strength of her being that she could die. But she had not died, and as she turned fretfully, restlessly, she realized she did not really want to spend the rest of her life in this bed.
True, when she rose she would have to leave this room again. She would have to walk down the stairs, speak to Alice and Mrs. River. He would be there.
The thought made her stomach churn, and she tried to imagine what she would say or do the next time she saw him.
She could not escape him, though, lying in this bed. If he was there, he was there. In fact, if he so desired, he could force open her door and drag her out, just as her uncle Horace had. She could do nothing to prevent that, as she had been unable to fight Desmond off last night. Somehow she would have to deal with the terrible uncertainties in her life and get on with it.
Her lips firmed as they had last night just before she left his room. She pushed the blankets back and swung her legs from the bed.
“Mrs. River!”
“Miss Trenton?”
They had surprised each other in the dining room. Marianne was relieved to find the room deserted when she arrived there and was doing her best not to alert anyone in the house as to her presence. She was gratified to find a few breakfast things still on the sideboard. The congealed eggs and cold oatmeal did not tempt her, but she found a few fresh strawberries and two muffins, which she was hungrily munching when Mrs. River entered the room through the kitchen door.
The housekeeper took a moment to collect herself. She was very confused by the situation here at Kingsbrook. She had known the young master and his family too long for her to be taken in by Mr. Desmond’s very thin story of bringing his “ward” to stay at Kingsbrook for a while. In the rooms directly adjacent to his own.
In fact, she had known Mr. Desmond since he was “Mister Peter” and came to visit his grandfather occasionally. He had been a pleasant enough child, but it was her understanding that he had acquired certain unfortunate habits while away at school. It was known in the servants’ quarters—and what was known in the servants’ quarters was invariably true, though no one could say precisely from whence the knowledge had come—that the boy was a great disappointment to his parents and had been virtually abandoned by them as a hopeless cause.
But Mrs. River knew her place, and Mr. Desmond was welcome to indulge himself and his base appetites without asking leave of his housekeeper or even hearing her opinion on the subject. Mrs. River firmly believed that she could distance herself enough from the gentleman’s private life that his crotchets need not come to her attention at all, as long as he kept such goings-on in London or across the Channel. But to bring a loose woman into this fine old house, to bed and board her behind these walls, deeply offended the Kingsbrook housekeeper.
Then Alice had reported this morning, in breathless undertones, that Mr. Desmond had slept alone in his bed, as had Miss Trenton in hers. Alice had added that Miss Trenton really did seem a perfect lady, whatever her profession might be, if Mrs. Rawlins and Tilly caught her meaning.
Mrs. River was disapproving of such tittle-tattle, naturally, and dismissed Alice’s opinion as the silly romanticism of a child. Now, though, as she stood facing the young woman in question, she could not help but admit that the adventuress of last night and this sweet young thing with crumbs on her fingers and a tiny smear of strawberry on her chin might not have been the same person.
This morning Miss Trenton was dressed in a light smock with a homey pinafore over it. Her hair was mussed and her eyes looked tired and red. Mrs. River felt her moral outrage being replaced by motherly compassion. Had she been wrong?
It was a new idea for Mrs. River.
She had been the unquestioned authority on every subject here in Kingsbrook for so long that she had almost forgotten the concept of “being wrong.”
“Excuse me. I found these things still out. I know it is terribly late and I certainly was not expecting breakfast, but I thought, since they were here…Oh, I—I hope they were not being reserved for someone!” Marianne stammered, as guiltily as if Mrs. River had surprised her stashing the house silverware in her undergarments.
“It is quite all right, Miss Trenton. You are welcome to anything on the sideboard, or Jenny will prepare something fresh for you if you would like.”
“Oh, no,” Marianne gasped, apparently appalled by the suggestion that something be prepared especially for her. “This is fine. The strawberries are very good, and if I can just take this second muffin up to my room, I will get out of your way.”
The girl fumbled with the muffin, attempting to wrap it in a napkin, reducing it to little more than a mass of crumbs.
“Here now,” Mrs. River said. Marianne looked up in astonishment, for the woman’s voice sounded kind and helpful.
Tears sprang to the girl’s eyes. She understood the housekeeper’s coolness of yesterday, knowing now the reason Mr. Desmond had brought her here. They all thought she was a tart. And perhaps she was, she thought miserably.
She had been unhappy staying with Uncle Horace, always lonely, sometimes even mistreated, but she had never been as frightened and confused as she was here now. Never since her mother’s death had she needed a comforting arm more.
“Oh, my dear,” Mrs. River cooed, the last barrier of disapproval melted by the tears in the girl’s eyes. The housekeeper stepped forward and put her arm around Marianne’s shoulders, and the young woman collapsed against her bosom.
Dismissing Marianne’s mature gown of last night, the impression she had given of flirting with Mr. Desmond, Mrs. River concluded she had made a deplorable mistake, that the young woman was here as the ward of her master, doubtless suffering from the recent loss of one or both of her parents. The tears were easily explained, and Mrs. River had only to gently pat the girl’s back as she wept. “Hush, now,” she said softly after several minutes.
Marianne, who had imagined her grief to be depthless, was surprised to find herself running out of tears. She sniffled, and Mrs. River withdrew her handkerchief from her waist and offered it to her. Like a dutiful child, Marianne blew into it heartily and felt herself even further recovered.
“Better?” Mrs. River asked.
Marianne nodded, hiccupping pitifully. “A little,” she said. “I am sorry….”
“Tut tut, child. I understand completely.”
Marianne looked into the woman’s face and was relieved to see she did not understand at all. Whatever trouble Mrs. River was imagining, it was not Marianne’s seduction and fall from innocence.
“Now you go on up to your room and wash your face and brush your hair. It is almost noon, and by the time you come down again Jenny will have a nice bowl of soup ready for you.”
The soup was delicious. Eaten in the privacy of a little nook in the kitchen, it was the most delicious meal Marianne could remember having in this place. Mrs. River was in and out of the kitchen several times, seeing to household affairs, entering again just in time to see Marianne mop up the last drop with her slice of bread.
“There now,” the housekeeper said, wiping her hands on her apron as if she had finished some taxing chore. “Mr. Desmond—”
Marianne jerked her head up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she looked around wildly. “Where? Where is Mr. Desmond?” she cried.
“Not here. Not here,” Mrs. River said soothingly. Goodness, the girl was as skittish as a thoroughbred colt. “I was only going to say Mr. Desmond left early this morning. He said he would be away for a few days and that you are to enjoy free access to the house and the park while he is away, so I merely wondered what you would like to do now?” The housekeeper smiled, and Marianne smiled back, though hers was a little weak and trembling.
“I do not know,” she said, genuinely at a loss.
“Well, you cannot stay tucked away in your room until the master returns,” Mrs. River chided.
But Mrs. River’s suggestion sounded very attractive to Marianne. She hurried back to her room and spent most of the day there, and the first half of the next. But by then she was growing bored and restless, indeed, and had quite caught up on her sleep.
“So you have come down at last?” Mrs. River said in greeting the next afternoon.
Marianne flushed slightly. “What are you going to do today, Mrs. River?” she inquired timidly.
“Why, I am going to shell peas for Mrs. Rawlins and set Alice to polishing the glassware,” the housekeeper replied.
“May I help?” Marianne offered.
So Mrs. River and she shelled peas, and then Marianne and Alice polished crystal under the housekeeper’s watchful gaze. Marianne took supper that night in the servants’ quarters and for the first time felt quite comfortable, almost jolly here at Kingsbrook.
By the next day she was ready to explore the estate. “Might I go about on the grounds?” she asked Mrs. River.
The woman smiled. “Indeed you may, child. A breath of fresh air will do you a world of good.”
Mrs. River pulled a loosely woven shawl from a hook and gently pushed Marianne toward the open doorway. She pointed out the walkway and suggested a route that would take her past the most charming sights of the Kingsbrook estate.
Marianne carefully put her foot outside the door, as if she was testing the frigid waters of some mountain spring before plunging in. She took another step. As soon as she was across the threshold, Mrs. River, with a soft chuckle, shut the door behind her.
At first Marianne wandered at random. After an excursion or two across meadows and flower beds left her with a muddied hem and a torn seam, she found that following the flagstone walkway was definitely the path of least resistance. And Mrs. River had been correct: whoever had plotted the route had done so with an eye to displaying all of the charms of the lovely estate.
The dense woods appeared to be clogged with a riot of ferns, mosses and ivy. The meadows were bejeweled with dahlias and delphiniums, and wild orchids and red campion were placed to achieve exactly the right balance and effect.
The pathway took Marianne across an arched wooden bridge over the bubbling brook. She saw another deer and wondered if the animals were treated as pets on Mr. Desmond’s lands. She did not have a lump of sugar with her, but was quite certain the delicate doe would have taken it from her hand if she had.
She was watching her footing carefully because the trailblazer, in what must have been a moment of irrepressible mischief, had laid the path stones perilously close to the bank of the stream, when she looked up and found herself standing in front of a squat stone enclosure. Walking around to inspect it, she discovered it to be open to the air, with pillars of stacked stones supporting a sloping slate roof. It was evidently a gazebo, with the same primitive quality as the landscape and as painstakingly created.
From the bright, sunlit meadow, the place appeared dark and forbidding to Marianne. She peered around anxiously, feeling unaccountably threatened by the heavy pile of stones. Taking a breath to bolster her courage, she mounted the steps. Walking between two of the pillars into the shady interior was like entering a cave. But once inside, she found it a very pleasant retreat, with a smooth stone bench to rest upon. The curious acoustics seemed to deaden the sounds of the woodland as effectively as the closing of a door.
Marianne sat down.
She looked out onto the meadow, straining to hear the rustle of the breeze stirring the grasses. Gazing between the dark stone pillars at the sun-dappled scene was like looking at another world—a brighter, more innocent world. Marianne’s eyes stung and tears began to flow down her cheeks. It was a world she could not be a part of now.
Not just because of what had happened, but because of the dark, more secret thoughts that pushed into her head: the image of him standing before her, half-clad, his bare legs pressed against her skirts; the remembered sensation of his heavy hand and strong fingers on her breasts, against the sensitive skin of her upper thigh. She wondered, though she did not like to and pushed the guilty thought away as quickly as she could, what it would have been like had Mr. Desmond gone slower, if she had been a willing partner. A great deal of whispering and sniggering went on about the subject, and Marianne wondered what on earth all the interest was about. She had experienced no great pleasure in the act. In fact, she could not remember “the act” at all. She wondered if, under the right circumstances, it could be as pleasant as people said. She tried to imagine what the right circumstances would be, and as a number of indecent scenes appeared before her mind’s eye, she attempted to push those thoughts away as well.
Without a doubt, she was irredeemably vile and sinful.
She buried her face in her hands, trying to block out the images, trying to return to the girl she had been a week ago, knowing in her heart that girl was now part of her irretrievable past.
If Peter Desmond felt guilty about nothing else, he should feel guilty for that.
She was not alerted to another presence in the peaceful little glade until she heard the scuff of a shoe on the stone steps leading into the gazebo. She jerked her head up to meet the very eyes she was trying to forget, though their depth and intensity seemed almost to have burned their impression into her living flesh.
She gasped.
Desmond winced as if she had spat in his face.
She looked like a rosebud as she drew away from him, folding tightly within herself, pink and tender, young and immature, but with great promise in her delicate petals. Desmond realized he had bruised the bud, and his cheeks grew warm with an unfamiliar shame.
It had been many years since Peter Desmond had felt shame. He would have thought his conscience had atrophied completely by now. He remembered vaguely feeling ashamed when young Ronny Withers had gotten him drunk that first time, there at Ketterling, and he had missed classes the next day and been called into the dean’s office.
“What have you to say for yourself, Master Desmond?” Dean Stampos had inquired darkly. Dean Stampos had been a big man, with heavy black brows and the voice of doom.
“I—I believe I was intoxicated, sir,” young Desmond had gulped.
“Believe?” Dean Stampos thundered.
“I was intoxicated, sir.”
“Six lashes, boy, and do not let me hear of such a thing again.”
If Dean Oliver Stampos had ended his direful sentence merely with “Six lashes,” Desmond really believed he would not have fallen from grace—at least not so quickly—nor plummeted to such depths. But the awesome symbol of authority in his young life had added those next eleven words, and do not let me hear of such a thing again, and the exceptionally bright boy had at last felt challenged by his schooling.
It became a contest of wit and ingenuity to find out how much he could get away with, how many rules he could break, in what misconduct he could indulge without Dean Stampos hearing of it. Desmond found he could quaff any strong drink his money could buy and his schoolboy stomach could hold. He found he could gamble away every cent of money his father sent him, his mother sent him, his grandfather advanced or he could beg, borrow or steal from the other boys. He believed it was Ronny Withers who also introduced him to the ladies who introduced him to pleasures of the flesh, though he was drunk at the time and did not really remember the painted jade who led him into one of the little cubicles, or what had happened there in the dark, let alone the schoolmate who had accompanied him to the den the night they sneaked away from Ketterling.
Yet in the end, Desmond was not as clever as he supposed, and when one day his father arrived at the school and Peter was called to a meeting in the dean’s office, Stampos was able to produce a file of proof of the boy’s misbehavior. Desmond was summarily dismissed.
He returned to the family home in Birmingham. His mother thought it was to her watchful care, but it was to a city that offered vice with as much increase over that available at the Ketterling school as a stream realizes when it enters a lake. Desmond eventually became a skilled gambler, but that education cost him the legacy an uncle had left him, all of the money his grandfather had meant for him to have after his death, when the boy took over Kingsbrook, and his father’s good graces.
And though in the beginning, there at Ketterling, and even when he returned home, he felt a twinge of conscience now and then, the nudges became fainter, the remorse negligible. He was not aware of feeling particularly ashamed even when, at last, his father summoned him to his office in town and told him that after the escapade of the weekend before—Desmond did not remember what had happened; he only knew his gold watch and chain were gone again and one of the carriages was wrecked beyond repair—Mr. Desmond could not allow his son to stay in the family home any longer.
Mr. Desmond did not like to suggest that the boy go to live with his wife’s father at the estate the old man was determined to leave him, and felt guilty at the relief he felt when Georgia tearfully suggested it herself. Sir Arthur Chadburn was a straitlaced old gentleman who would not countenance his grandson’s debauchery, and Peter, Mr. Desmond knew from experience, was bound and determined to be debauched. Mr. Desmond did not like to imagine the result of the stress Peter would cause the elderly gentleman.
As it turned out, though, even as father and son were having their grim confrontation, a letter was being delivered to Mrs. Desmond announcing the death of her father. So Peter assumed ownership of the Kingsbrook manor and estate outside of Reading, and his father, with a stony face but a clear conscience, sent the boy away, vowing he would never see him again.
It was unbeknownst to his father, young Desmond was sure, that his mother sent him a semiannual stipend that more or less kept him afloat. It was meant to supplement the estate upkeep, but more often than not it supplemented Desmond’s gambling expenses. Fortunately, his gaming had improved to the point where he could pay the few Kingsbrook servants with fair regularity and travel to all the great gambling Meccas here in England and on the Continent to make additional monies for himself and the estate.
It was a difficult, strenuous life he had chosen for himself. Despite his dismissal from boarding school, he was accepted into the Reading University on his scholastic merit. Though the lessons came easily, he would not focus on his education and left the university after four years with no better idea of what to do. By then he had been disowned by his family; he had lost the generous remembrances of his uncle and grandfather. His father had roared and his mother had wept, and through it all Desmond kept his jaw stubbornly squared and refused to admit to any shame.
Now, though, as he stood between the pillars of the little stone gazebo, facing the girl he had claimed as prize in his latest game of cards, his cheeks grew warm and he was forced to acknowledge his own ignominy.
He would have given anything to have relegated this meeting to someone else, but to have taken that happy option would have required a fuller disclosure than Desmond intended to ever give anyone about what had happened that night.
He cleared his throat. “Good day, Miss Trenton,” he said.
She did not answer, only continued to watch him warily.
He took another step into the gazebo, and she hitched herself farther away from him on the bench, as far as she could without falling to the stone flooring.
He sighed.
“Miss Trenton, I wish I could convince you that you do not have to fear me, but I do not suppose that is possible now. Here, I will stand with my back against this pillar. I will not take another step toward you the entire time I am here. And you, if you could, may relax your hold on the edge of the bench there so your knuckles are not quite so white.”
He nodded toward where she gripped the stone seat, apparently clinging for dear life. She released her hold and then looked up at the man standing on the other side of the little enclosure, his back dutifully flat against the supporting pillar. She folded her hands in her lap, but dismay and terror still filled her eyes with dark shadows.
Peter Desmond, though an admitted roué, having advanced from dark dens to glittering palaces of prostitution, had never taken a woman against her will or even below her top price. It was his habit, though hardly a regular one, to meet with such ladies and leave them satisfied, as well as pleased, as it were. Despite his decidedly wicked ways, he had never expected to see in a young lady’s eyes the expression he saw in Marianne’s.
He cleared his throat gruffly. “I will come directly to the point,” he said. “I have spent a number of sleepless nights contemplating your immediate future, as I am sure you have.”
The girl nodded slightly.
“If I understood you correctly that night…” the young woman’s pale cheeks suddenly blazed at the mere mention of the episode, and Desmond uncomfortably cleared his throat again “…you are not a regular girl of Mr. Carstairs’s then?”
Marianne looked at him blankly, furrowing her brow slightly in her attempt to understand his meaning.
“You do not…work for Carstairs?”
“I am the ward of Uncle Horace,” Marianne whispered.
They were the same words Carstairs had said to him, the same words he had laughed over and repeated to Abbot and Phillips, almost the exact words Mrs. River had employed to announce Miss Trenton’s arrival. Why, then, did they mean something so very different when the girl whispered them?
“Yes, of course,” Desmond murmured. “Nevertheless, I do not believe you should return to Mr. Carstairs’s establishment.”
He watched her carefully, trying to gauge her reaction to his decision. Would she quarrel with him and be difficult? Did she want to return to that pit?
She shook her head, but did not venture any comment.
Desmond nodded briskly. “Right. I should tell you then, I have been into London to consult with legal counsel, reviewing the situation in which we find ourselves.”
Marianne’s expressive face registered surprise. After what Mr. Desmond had done, how could he go to a representative of the law?
“I do not know if you are fully aware of the circumstances that brought you here, Miss Trenton, but Mr. Carstairs wagered his guardianship of you and lost. I won.” He could not keep the ironic tone from his voice. “My lawyer informs me that, though unusual, such a transfer of responsibility can be legal. There are papers and signatures involved, but Mr. Bradley assures me that dating from my meeting with Carstairs and the others at the Grand Hotel, you may be considered in my legal custody.”
“Oh.”
It was a very small sound, but Desmond hoped there was more surprise in it than fright. But there was some fright in her eyes, which cut him to the quick. Seeing her here, clothed in dress and pinafore that made her look like a child fresh from the nursery, Mr. Desmond was, as his housekeeper had been, struck by how young she appeared. If she had arrived at Kingsbrook dressed this way, or had come to supper that night in this outfit instead of that indecently provocative green gown that seemed to set her hair ablaze, Desmond would never have attempted what he had.
Now the gentleman hitched his back in discomfort against the hard rocks, but kept his shoulders squarely against the pillar. “It is my intention to enroll you in a respectable boarding school.”
He had arrived at that happy solution in the long waking hours of that night before he left for London, though he was not prepared for the amount of money such a solution would cost. Mr. Bradley, his solicitor, had informed him a “good” school would cost every bit of the money his mother sent him each year. It was lucky for Desmond that he had done the girl no physical harm, or this damned conscience of his, which had chosen a most inconvenient time to reintroduce itself, would have had him selling Kingsbrook to recompense her.
As it was, he would be required to tighten his belt and pass up his forays to Paris and Monte Carlo for the next few years. As he discussed the proposition with Bradley and contemplated the sacrifices that would be required of him, his resolve had faltered a bit. He might have been willing to seek another solution, but as the lovely young girl sat quivering on the cold stone bench before him, his chin firmed and he determined to limit his gambling trips to London and Liverpool as long as she was enrolled, if need be.
By gad, it felt good to be noble!
“I have made no inquiries yet, so if you have a preference for the part of the country in which you wish to be located, or for a school you may have heard about, I will certainly give your choice consideration.”
“I—I attended Miss Willmington’s classroom on Miller Street for a while,” she whispered.
“You have had some schooling?” Desmond asked, surprised. He had assumed the girl, though not a professional yet, was merely some street urchin Carstairs had picked up, preparing her for market.
The girl nodded.
“You can read and write, then?”
She nodded again.
“And work figures?”
Her lips turned up unconsciously, and Desmond drew in his breath at the delightfully whimsical effect the slight change in her expression produced.
“Some,” she said softly. Marianne’s introduction to, and practice with, numbers had been grueling, the difficulty compounded by any help her father tried to give.
At the thought of her father, the glimmer of a smile left her lips, and Desmond exhaled in disappointment. “Well, that will make a difference, of course,” he said. “Do you wish to return to Miss Willmington’s school?”
“I finished there,” she said softly. “It was for children.”
“I see.” He swallowed heavily. The girl before him was still barely more than a child. “Very well. We must find another place then, but now I see I do not have to look for a classroom that offers the most elementary instruction, but can place you with girls your own age.”
Marianne continued to stare at him wordlessly, with large, disconcerting eyes.
“I shall set the works in motion then,” he said. “It may take a week or two, but I will take rooms in Reading until I find a place for you. You may make yourself at home here in Kingsbrook, and Mrs. River will help you with anything you need. Do you have any questions about your schooling?”
He paused to give the girl a chance to speak, but she shook her head.
“If you think of something, you may ask Mrs. River. I will leave complete instructions with her. If I do not see you again before you leave, Miss Trenton, once more allow me to express my regrets over our little misunderstanding.”
He took a deep breath of relief. There. It was over. He had done all he could in redemption for bringing the girl here and behaving like an animal, and now, if he was lucky, he would never have to see her again and could put this episode behind him. In the future, he would be happy for the solitude of Kingsbrook, thankful for the privacy of his bed. He was even tempted to give up gambling, though he did not go so far as to make the personal pledge. His losses he could cover; it was his winnings that were so appalling.
He pushed himself away from the pillar.
Marianne had dropped her eyes, seeming to be fascinated by the fingers twisting in her lap. “Mr. Desmond, what if…” she began softly, timidly, unable to let him go without asking her most fearful question.
“Yes?” he said, encouraging her as gently as he could when it appeared she would not finish her sentence.
“What if I am pregnant?” she whispered.
Desmond’s shoulders fell back heavily against the pillar. In fact, it was fortunate the solid pile of stones was there to catch him.
“You are not pregnant, Marianne,” he said. There was a gruffness in his voice that suggested how touched he was by the child and her anguished question.
“But after that night…”
“Nothing happened that night.”
“Nothing?” She looked up at him, her beautiful eyes opened wide in doubtful wonder. “But you—you…”
“I behaved like a brute, but I assure you the act was not consummated that night. You are as pure and inviolate now as you were when you left Mr. Carstairs’s home in London. And you are safer here than you ever were there.”
The girl’s eyes filled with tears of relief. “Really?” she asked uncertainly, hopefully.
He wanted more than he had ever wanted anything in his life—more than he had wanted Galston’s Way to win the Derby that year when he might still have repaid his grandfather; more than he had wanted that ace of clubs that would have finished his straight flush and sent him home victorious at least once before his father threw him out of the house; more even than he wished, sometimes late at night as he lay in some narrow cot in a strange city, that good old Ronny Withers had sunk to the bottom of the English Channel before he ever came to Ketterling—to gather this trembling girl in his arms and smooth away the fear and distrust he had taught her. But he had promised he would stay where he was, and the finger of God could not have moved him from this place.
“Really,” he replied earnestly.
She gave a shuddering sigh and dropped her eyes again.
She was not going to have a baby.
Marianne had been terrified by the events of that night and totally confused. Her perception of the sexual act was based solely on the cheap novels she read. In them the man kissed the woman—very much as Mr. Desmond had kissed her—clothes were discarded and body parts exposed, and in the next chapter the woman was with child.
Her fear had been practically paralyzing, and now her relief made her bones feel gelatinous. But she believed Mr. Desmond. Not only because he knew more than she did about what had happened that night and how much more was actually required to produce a baby, but because of the look on his face and the timbre of his voice when he spoke.
“Good,” she whispered, but he did not answer, and when she looked up she was alone in the gazebo again.
As she stared across the empty space, out into the deep green of the bower beyond the columns of stone, her mind was cleared of the dark pall of fear that had held her in its grip. But in its place, she heard Mr. Desmond’s words again and was free to contemplate their meaning.
“I assure you the act was not consummated that evening,” he had said. Mr. Desmond, she knew, was very rich. And very wicked. He was sending her to a fine boarding school, but was he taking such action only to save her for himself another day?
It was not the first time Marianne misunderstood the gentleman’s motives, nor would it be the last.