"Excuse me, madame," said White, smiling at her. "May I escort you upstairs?"
The Duchess gave him her arm. She walked past chairs pulled this way and that, past spilled wine and food, past candles slowly being extinguished by a footman, past wilted flowers, past garlands being pulled down by a chambermaid. Already they were cleaning up the wedding. But then, Roger was leaving in just a few days. There would be no round of bride's visits for Barbara. She would be in France, far away. The Duchess's heart squeezed. Her legs ached. She had drunk too much wine. But she had this final duty to her grandchild. Some relative must put her to bed, and Diana had disappeared hours ago.
Martha was brushing out Barbara's hair when the Duchess entered Roger's bedchamber. The wedding gown and petticoats and stockings lay on the carpet in a pool of white. The room was silent. There was no one in here but Barbara and that maid. Yes, a far cry from her own wedding night. Doubtless Roger thought himself too old for all the wedding night fuss, the joking, the caudle. Well, he should not be too old for his other task, the deflowering of her granddaughter. She hobbled around the room, inspecting the paintings hanging on the walls. She stopped at the one of Richard. She had no idea Roger possessed it. She stared at it, admiring Richard's handsomeness, trying to pinpoint exactly where they had been in their lives when it had been painted. It was an early portrait of Richard in his twenties. Where had Roger found it? The Duchess only knew she had never seen it before.
Suddenly, the foreboding was in her, filling her, frightening her, making her breath stop. She groped for a chair and sat down heavily, taking in deep rasping gasps of air. Her vision was blurred. She could just see Barbara standing naked as her maid slipped a white nightgown over her head. She concentrated on breathing evenly. Gradually, as the maid began to gather up the clothes from the floor, her breathing slowed. Barbara came to stand by her. Her dear girl. Using Barbara's strong, young arm, the Duchess hoisted herself up. She was exhausted. Together they walked toward the bed. Its draperies were pulled back. The bed linens looked fresh and white. On a table near the bed, beside a candle, was a vase of flowers, the same flowers that Barbara had worn today. There was a wine decanter and two glasses waiting. The sight of it made the Duchess feel better. Roger knew what he was doing. He would see that her girl was not hurt any more than necessary. He had had many women. Many women. She was a silly, fearful old woman. She started to cry. Barbara, who had already climbed into bed, exclaimed, "Grandmama, what is it?"
It was a moment before the Duchess could speak. She was a noisy crier, sniffling and rasping. "I feel so old," she finally croaked.
"You are tired, Grandmama," Barbara said, hugging her, trying to wipe her tears. "You should be home in bed."
She jumped out of bed and pulled the bell pull before the Duchess could speak. Martha opened the door.
"My grandmother is exhausted," Barbara said firmly. "See that she is escorted home. And make sure someone goes with her. Kiss me good-night, Grandmama. You must leave now. You are so tired. I will be fine. Truly."
The Duchess leaned on Martha's arm. Barbara was correct; she was tired; she did need her bed. And her granddaughter did not need her now. She was ready to start her own life, she did not want her old grandmother hanging about. Which was as it should be. She kissed Barbara and walked away, feebly leaning against Martha as if the maid were all that was keeping her up. It was time for her to be home, time to drink her special wine, time to have her legs wrapped. She could do no more. The future was up to Barbara and Roger.
* * *
When Roger entered his bedchamber, he found his young wife on her knees, by the side of his bed praying. Her back and buttocks and legs showed plainly through the thin material of her gown. Except for a certain inherent female roundness and slight breasts, she was almost as lean as a boy. The sight of her on her knees made him laugh (even while her slightness touched something protective inside him). Was she praying for deliverance? It was too late. She was his. He had never been responsible for another human being before. Seeing her, the extent of his future responsibilities leapt to his mind. The full implication of his marriage was just beginning to crystallize.
Barbara jerked around at his laugh, jumped up and scrambled into bed. She pulled the covers up to her neck and stared at him with wide, serious eyes. Her hair curled about her face and neck with luxuriant richness. She had beautiful hair. It would feel good to run his hands through it. He felt so tired. All evening he had worked to prevent Catherine from making a scene and Barbara from feeling neglected. What a hypocrite Catherine was. He knew she was sleeping with Carr Hervey. But she still had to feel that it was she that was tired of him, rather than the other way around. Roger knew women, especially unfaithful women, too well. Would this child, staring at him with such big eyes, be unfaithful too? In all likelihood, she would. But if she gave him sons for his dreams, she could do as she pleased and he would not grudge her pleasure. Lord, she had a sweetly shaped face. Like a valentine. He poured himself a glass of wine. She must have some also before he entered her. It would ease the hurt he must do to her. Dear God, it had been years since he had lain with a virgin. He sat down on the edge of the bed. She had put down the covers, and she was watching him. He could see her slight breasts through the thin material of her gown. The sight touched him. She was so young.
"What were you praying for, Barbara? An annulment?"
She laughed, deep, rich, throaty laughter, astonishing from such a young girl. The zest of it reminded him of her grandfather. Even when Richard had been old, he seemed young when he laughed. Roger drank more of his wine.
"I ought to be," she told him. "I have been warned by Fanny and Grandmama what to expect. Fanny says to submit. Grandmama says it is the same as the animals mating—only she hopes you will have more finesse."
Her ability to jest at such a moment caught him by surprise. He had not yet taken the time to know her. Who was she? More than the thin child of his memory. She had a sense of humor. That was good. A witty woman was so much more interesting to live with. Wit outdid even beauty in the long run; a thing few men realized until it was too late. God knew he had made the same mistake himself many times.
Barbara was watching his face. "What are you thinking? Are you angry?"
"Angry? Why?"
"At having to marry me so quickly."
He smiled at her. You are Bentwoodes' fairy godmother, he thought. Without you, I would not have it. It was his, finally. Tomorrow he was going to spend all day with surveyors and engineers. Even while he was in France and Hanover and Italy, Bentwoodes was going to take shape. Angry? he thought. I am elated. He touched her cheek with his hand. Such a soft cheek. She leaned toward him, a sensual, feminine, instinctive movement. He felt desire rising in him. That, too, was a surprise. Not that he should have an erection. He knew exactly what to think of to make himself hard. But that it should have happened without the thought. Perhaps she was going to be good for him. Perhaps her wit and resemblance to her grandfather would bury old ghosts that haunted him.
"I love you," she said softly, holding his hand against her cheek. "I have loved you since I was a little girl."
"You are still a little girl," he said.
"No."
"You have so much to learn, Barbara."
She leaned forward until her lips were nearly on his.
"Teach me, " she whispered. "Please, Roger."
He put down his glass, and held her face in both his hands. She was staring at him with love and trust. Gently, slowly, he leaned forward and touched her lips with his. What a sweet girl she was. Her youth, her open avowal of love, disarmed him, touched that part of himself he thought closed off to all feeling, He leaned her back against the pillows and pushed the heavy curling hair from her brow and face. He smiled again before covering her face and neck with soft, gentle kisses, as light as the touch of a feather. But then his kisses grew more demanding. She shivered. He was at her mouth again, his tongue gently exploring. She gasped with surprise.
She had never been kissed so…she had not known…he raised his head. His eyes were so blue that they dazzled.
"What is wrong?" he whispered. "Have I frightened you?"
She twined her arms around his neck. "No…kiss me like that again… please, Roger."
He smiled at her, a lazy, slow, sensual smile that made the tips of her breasts grow pointed…from the smile and from what was in his eyes. He desired her…he desired her.…no one had ever desired her…and now Roger desired her. Leisurely, he put his mouth on her, one hand caressing her slim, bare hip under her gown. She had never been so exhilarated, with its tiny, electrifying undercurrent of fear, in her life. His tongue was exploring her mouth again, and his hand was moving up to her breast, and she could not think clearly anymore.
"I am going to touch you here, Barbara…and here…" he said into her ear, his voice, his hands sending shivers down her spine. "I am going to touch you many places and if any of them should displease you, you only have to tell me."
"And if they please me?" she said breathlessly.
He bit her neck. "Tell me that, too."
"Roger…" Her eyes were like night stars. Finally, he had to close his eyes at the expression in them….
* * *
The Duchess lay awake. She had drunk too much wine. Was, in fact, drunk. To drown out fears. Worries. Old ghosts. Which had surrounded her today, in fact, all these days again in London….Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine. On their wedding night Richard had memorized the Song of Solomon…Behold, thou art fair, my love; thou hast doves' eyes…to show his regard and desire, he had said. Our bed is green…our rafters of fir…behold thou art fair, my love.
Chapter Nine
Barbara's brother Harry lay beside the plump body of Caroline Layton. It was late morning, and his head ached from drinking. He sat up, the sheet falling away to expose his abdomen and thighs.
"Darling," murmured Caroline, her hand lazily caressing his back, circling around to caress his thighs.
He lay down, perfectly willing to see what she would do. She played with him delicately, skillfully, kissing his thighs, his manhood, trailing her pointed, pink tongue along a path of her own devising. He became aroused. Caroline expertly slid her body over and atop his; he was inside her before he quite realized it.
She began to move slowly, sensuously, atop him, intent on her own pleasure, and he was content to lie still, allow her to do as she pleased. Her hands caressed his thighs, his buttocks, his chest as she moved and swayed to a rhythm that brought pleasure to them both. The tips of her overfull breasts jabbed his chest as she began to move more urgently, falling against him in little pants.
"Good…oh, Harry. Good…young…so young. I…oh…love young men."
She pushed against him, her face contained, intent on her feelings, and he joined her in her urgent, restless dance to completion, his mind empty, feeling only the full, glistening breasts, the slide up and down him, the hot, moist beat surrounding him.
She cried out and dug her fingernails into him. He held her hips and jabbed his way to his own pleasure even as she fell limp against him. After a moment, she moved off him and lay down beside him.
"Darling," she said.
He did not answer, but rose, careless of his nakedness, and went to the window. His body was small and muscular with wide shoulders tapering to narrow hips. His face was his mother's, only masculine. It was a face that intrigued women. He was only beginning to explore the power of his looks. Caroline was the fulfillment of his most erotic, frustrated schoolboy dream. But he wanted far more than Caroline; he wanted a taste of all the women in the world. And he was learning that he had only to smile lazily and say whatever it was they wished to hear. Married women were best, insatiable if their husbands were dull enough. It did not matter that he had no money. It only mattered that he was well-born and young, and, of course, too handsome for his own good. They were more than willing to pay for his clothes, his tobacco, his gambling. He would never bother with virgins again. He remembered Jane's shrill "no's" when his hand touched her breasts. He remembered his own suffering and guilt and wanting. It was not that he had not loved Jane. He had. And he still did. But she was like a pale daydream against the reality of Caroline Layton and others. When he had first arrived in Italy, angry, heartsore, he had gone straight to a portrait artist and commissioned a miniature of Jane. He had described her minutely. Then he had met Caroline. In a month, when the miniature was finished, it had taken him a moment to recognize it as Jane. The pale, frail blondeness painted there could have been anyone. He had already forgotten exactly what she did look like, and the miniature, which he had meant to wear every waking moment, had been put under his shirts. And sometimes, when he was down to his last one, he would come upon it and gaze at it and try to remember how he had once desired her. But the young man under the apple trees at Tamworth was too far away from the young man standing naked, looking out the windows of Caroline's villa.
Chapter Ten
The Duc d'Orléans, regent of France for the boy king, Louis XV, snorted once or twice and, in doing so, woke himself. Outside, in the dark night, sleet tip–tapped against the windows. Inside, bodies lay sprawled in chairs and under tables. Another supper was ended. Orléans's suppers were private. No one was admitted except by invitation, and no servants were allowed because of what they might see. The guests did their own cooking, which was served on a specially designed set of china depicting men and women, women and women, men and men, in various stimulating, explicit sexual poses. As if the china were not enough to arouse appetites other than those of hunger, each guest consumed about three bottles of champagne apiece while watching a naked ballet performed by several of the young girls in the chorus at the opera, or a lantern show in which the figures outlined in the light of the lantern copulated like dogs, or perhaps with dogs.
Orléans stood up shakily and began to rouse those guests who had not passed out. It was three in the morning. Those that could walk began to put on their clothes, pull down their skirts, button their breeches and leave. Orléans kept a special staff of footmen who would enter in a few moments when he rang for them and remove the unconscious to their carriages. He stepped over the naked bodies of two opera dancers intertwined around the half-nude body of Henri, the young Chevalier de St. Michel. Orléans paused a moment to study their positions. The guttering candlelight softened the flesh tones, the explicitness. He shook St. Michel by the shoulder, and the man moaned and then tried to sit up. Orléans moved to his daughter, the Duchesse de Berry, who lay sprawled in a chair, snoring, her skirts pulled up, naked from the waist down. A man was still licking between her heavy thighs, moaning and pulling at the material of his crotch. Orléans pushed him away, and the man rolled against a sleeping comtesse, fumbled with her tousled skirts, settled himself atop her and began to pump against her with the mindlessness of an animal. The comtesse never moved. Orléans pulled down his daughter's skirts and closed her mouth. He glanced around the room. Most of the men were dressed and had left. As for the women, only his daughter mattered. He rang for the footmen, and then wandered out into the corridor to his own apartments, every now and again pausing to look out the great windows into the dark night. Sleet made faint tapping sounds against the windowpanes.
Inside the supper room, the footmen, their faces impassive, began to carry guests away. Now and again, they would pause to look at a naked girl who was pretty, and a certain furtive look would pass between them, but nothing was said. When all of the guests were settled into their carriages, except for two of the opera dancers, naked, still asleep, the footmen, six in all, reassembled in the room. They took turns at the sleeping girls, those who were not engaged in sex pushing in chairs and stacking dirty plates and dousing the candles in the heavy crystal chandeliers or in the wall sconces until it should be their turn. They were silent and swift and efficient in both their lovemaking and their tidying. Very soon, they would be finished; the opera dancers wo
uld be sent home, never knowing of their final lovers except for an extra soreness the next morning.