The Highwayman's Lady Page 21

  I am stung by her implication. “I believe I have, Beatrice. We have been discreet.”

  “Not discreet enough, or we would not be having this conversation. Do you think to trap Francis into marriage, perhaps?”

  I shake my head, both indignant and adamant. “No, most certainly not. He will not wed me. He has said so.”

  One aristocratic eyebrow is raised again as she digests that snippet. “So, you have discussed the possibility then?”

  “I, er, no, not really.”

  “Yet you seem convinced he will not offer marriage, despite enjoying the benefits of that happy state.”

  “Yes, Beatrice, I am sure of that.”

  “Imogen, I do not wish to see you hurt or Francis, for that matter.” Her tone has softened. She leans forward to regard me intently. “Will it do any good for me to demand that you desist, that you discontinue this ill-fated relationship? At once?”

  I consider for a few moments, then shake my head. “No, Beatrice, I do not believe it will. You see, we… we care very deeply for one another despite our short acquaintance.”

  “I see. In that case, I must ask you to exercise the utmost caution in your nocturnal ramblings about this house—you and Francis. I shall say as much to him when he deigns to join us this morning. I do not wish this, this—liaison—to become common knowledge among the servants.”

  “Will you tell Sir Phillip?”

  “Of course I shall. There are no secrets between us, not in this house. I doubt he will be any better pleased at learning this news than I was. He might even insist that his brother behave as a gentleman ought, though I dread to think where that might lead us. This is really a most complicated arrangement, Imogen. Most complicated. I prefer matters to be simple, as you know.”

  “Of course. I understand. But, I hope we might still be friends. I value your friendship so much and I would hate for there to be a rift between us.”

  “I do as well, Imogen, though you do not make it easy.”

  “I may remain here then? Despite—everything.”

  She appears surprised at my request. “Of course. Did I ever suggest otherwise?”

  “And, after my birthday? After my baby is born?”

  “You shall have a home here for as long as you require it, though I would prefer it if you could resist the urge to hop in and out of bed with every male visitor to cross our doors. Now, if you will excuse me, I really must check that Lucy is persevering with her embroidery. That child will skimp on the borders of her sampler if given the slightest opportunity.”

  She leaves the room to supervise the domestic education of her youngest daughter, leaving me alone to ponder how her opinion of my moral character ever sank so low.

  Those reflections remain uppermost in my mind when next I encounter Gray. He is descending the main staircase, dressed for the outdoors. I waylay him and usher him into the library.

  I get straight to the point. “Beatrice knows. She saw you last night.”

  He cups my face between his hands and kisses me before replying. “Yes, I know. I have had quite a lecture from her regarding my moral bankruptcy and general lack of any finer qualities. I confess I am surprised; I had thought she liked me. I gather she fears I might ruin you. Or break your heart.”

  “She believes me to be a whore.”

  “Did she say that?” He steps back, frowning.

  “No, not exactly. But it is what she thinks.”

  “She did not give me that impression. I rather think she considers you the wronged party and me the reprehensible villain who has led you from the path of true decency.” He pauses and sighs. “Ah well, she will become accustomed to us in time, I daresay.”

  I gape at him, outraged. “How can you be so casual? Do you not care what she thinks?”

  He shrugs. “I do, but not so much that I might alter my behaviour because of it. What about you? I get the impression you are somewhat upset.”

  Is he quite deluded? “Of course I am upset. I am mortified. Beatrice considers me to be a woman of low morals, a light skirt. She intends to tell Sir Phillip.”

  “I believe my brother has already been informed. He accosted me on the upper landing to acquaint me with his general dissatisfaction with my conduct.”

  “Oh, sweet Mother of God, you have quarrelled again,” I exclaim, horrified that this is going from bad to worse.

  “We exchanged views, yes, but I would not describe our conversation as a quarrel exactly. Beatrice has taken the whole thing much harder, it would seem to me.”

  I cover my face with my hands and start to sob. I am unusually emotional these days. Gray utters a low curse and enfolds me in his arms.

  “It will pass, sweetheart. Beatrice is put out, disappointed perhaps. She will get over it.”

  “I know,” I sniffle, “but I hate having her think so badly of me. She has been so kind…”

  “Do you prefer me not to come to you again? That would soothe my sister-in-law’s outraged sensibilities and I daresay you could regain her good opinion soon enough.”

  I shake my head, quite certain I do not want that. I am not sure what it is I do want exactly, but I am sure it is not that.

  “Very well then. We shall continue as we are and allow matters to settle. Beatrice will become accustomed to the situation in time.”

  I suppose what he says is true, but it is of little comfort right now. Even so, I gather my composure sufficiently to locate the handkerchief I keep tucked into my bodice and set my face to rights. I manage a watery smile.

  “You are going out? When will you return?”

  “Aye, I agreed to check the progress of lambing in the most northerly portion of the estate. It was the least I could do in order to assuage my brother’s discontent at my descent into moral turpitude. I shall be back by suppertime.”

  I am gratified that Gray appears to be at last developing some interest in the fortunes of Kirkleven and begin to surmise we might yet salvage something from this miserable day. “I shall see you at supper then. Take care.”

  He kisses me again and with a low, flourishing bow, he is gone.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Another four weeks have elapsed. My pregnancy advances and I become slower, more cumbersome with every passing day. Not that this seems to matter to Gray who has continued to spend most nights in my bed, only stirring himself to return to his own chamber when the servants start about their morning tasks. He is not always sexually demanding, equally content to lie with me in his arms on those occasions when I am too fatigued or just too clumsy to muster any interest in lovemaking. It is a position I find most comfortable and I have long since given up the belief that Gray finds my thickened body any less alluring than my usually much more slender form. He adores the sensation of the baby kicking inside me and will take every opportunity to spread his palms on my swollen abdomen to absorb the little bumps and bounces from within.

  Beatrice is equally smitten and the pair of them vie for the chance to examine my pregnant belly. On one occasion Sir Phillip was even prevailed upon to join in the fun, though I suspect he found the experience somewhat disconcerting and has not chosen to repeat it.

  Gray has acceded to his brother’s requests for assistance in matters of estate management and spends most of his days out on the land. Agriculture at Kirkleven is mainly pastoral, since the terrain lends itself better to the raising of stock than crops. Gray considers sheep somewhat silly, but mercifully, they require little in the way of supervision. Our cattle are similarly hardy. Gray has been attempting to convince his brother that the estate should commence breeding fine horseflesh and I detect signs that Sir Phillip is warming to the idea.

  For myself, my project in the library is nearing completion. I have just to examine and catalogue the family journals and the task will be concluded. I have wondered what gainful pursuit I might find to occupy my time in the future, though Beatrice assures me my baby will offer ample diversion, at l
east for a while. I am not especially disheartened, therefore, as I settle myself in the library for a quiet afternoon’s work.

  The journals are fascinating, offering a record of life at Kirkleven since before the time of Queen Mary. Every major purchase is detailed there, each alteration to the structure of the house itself and the costs entailed in the construction. Births, deaths, and marriages are also listed, along with details such as the value of the dowry brought by the bride, or the settlement to be made on the widow following the death of some long-departed earl. I learn that the portion that came with Sir Phillip’s great-grandmother saved the then impoverished estate from ruin and her husband successfully nurtured the investment to set Kirkleven back on the route to prosperity. Subsequent earls have proven themselves equally thrifty to arrive at the wealth enjoyed by the current generation.

  I set aside the volume I have just finished studying and check the clock. In another hour I should start to prepare for the evening meal but for now, I can remain here. I leave the heavy journal on the table for Gray to carry back to the shelves later. It is only then that I realise I have no other tome to hand. The rest of the collection remains on the shelf and at a height that will require me to stand on a stool to reach.

  Gray is not at home so I ring the bell beside me to summon Masterson and lean back to await his arrival. A minute later I ring it again. When he still does not appear, I go to the door and peer out into the hall, ready to request the assistance of whoever I might find there. The vestibule is deserted. I fetch the bell and ring it in the hallway itself. Surely someone will be within earshot.

  Apparently not. A quick inspection shows the dining room to be empty, and Beatrice’s sitting room also. I start in the direction of the kitchens, always a hive of activity, then halt. This is ridiculous. I am not an invalid. I can manage to retrieve one book from a shelf even if it does entail standing on a footstool to do so. I hasten back into the library and pull a low buffet from under the desk.

  I arrange the stool in front of the bookcase and stand back to peruse the dates etched on the spines. I spot the volume I require and place one foot on the buffet.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Gray’s voice echoes around the room, startling me. Caught off balance I start to teeter. He is across the room in an instant to grab me around the waist and aid me back to the floor. I thank him as he herds me back to my chair, insisting that I sit down at once.

  “I thought I had made myself clear, yet I turn my back for a moment and the next thing I know you are clambering up on the furniture. You gave me your word, madam, that you would take care of yourself and our child, but your promise seems to be worthless.”

  “Please, Gray, do not fuss. I was perfectly safe and lifting just one book would not overtax me. There was no one about, so—”

  “Safe? You call balancing on a stool safe? I believe we have widely differing opinions on that, Imogen.” He stands before me, hands on his hips, glowering.

  “I rang for the servants, but there was no one to hand, so I thought…” I pause. His expression is, if anything, even stormier.

  “I know. Masterson was occupied in the yard with me. He would have come but I left him to conclude his inventory of the winter feed stocks whilst I came indoors in response to your summons, to find—this.” He waves his arm in the direction of the abandoned stool and bookcase. “You and I are to have a reckoning, Imogen. I will have your obedience in this matter.”

  “Oh, but…” I give up. His countenance offers not the least hint that he might relent. “But, the baby…”

  “I am gratified that you seem not to have totally forgotten our unborn child. Be assured, madam, that I have not. I would be obliged if you would return to your chamber now and I shall join you there shortly.”

  “But, you cannot. It is the middle of the day. Someone might see you.”

  My protests attract a sardonic twist of his lips. “I doubt that. Do not forget, I know how to move about this house undetected.” He glances at the bookcase again and this time I realise he refers to the hidden passage behind it. He uses the secret staircase occasionally on his nocturnal visits, having insisted upon repositioning my bed slightly to facilitate easier access into my room. He glares at me, his beautiful mahogany-hued eyes darkening in his anger. “Go now, Imogen. I expect to find you naked and bent over the end of your bed ready for me.”

  I gulp, but make no further attempt to plead my cause. He steps to one side as I stand, allowing me to rush past him as I hasten to the door. It never occurs to me to disobey.

  Once in my room, I dismiss the offer of my maid to prepare a bath for me or to style my hair and help me get ready for dinner. I accept her suggestion that she might assist me to loosen my gown since the task will take much longer unaided, then lock the door behind her as she leaves me. I peel off my clothing as quickly as I am able, then go to stand at the foot of my bed. A scratching behind the panelling at the head of the bed heralds Gray’s arrival and moments later, the section of wall swings aside to reveal his tall, lean form. He steps into my chamber, his features still set in that determined, stern expression that bodes ill for me.

  “Sir, I apologise. You were right, of course and I—”

  “Bend over, Imogen. You may rest your shoulders on the mattress.” Implacable, he regards me under his lowered brows.

  I move into position. Despite his commitment not to spank me for the duration of my pregnancy I find myself waiting for the swish of his belt as he removes it ready to thrash me. There is only silence. Bemused, I turn my head to look at him. His belt remains around his waist. He does, however, have a small bowl balanced in his palm. I dare not ask what it contains, but he satisfies my dread curiosity anyway. He takes a long, narrow object from the bowl and holds it up for me to see.

  A piece of ginger root. It appears to have been peeled, but as I watch, he takes his knife from his belt and proceeds to carve a rim around one end. He takes his time, occasionally glancing in my direction. I start to straighten, but he puts a stop to that with one curt word.

  “Stay!”

  I settle again, my heart thumping as I watch his preparations. I cannot fathom what he might be about, but I know I will not like it.

  At last, seemingly satisfied, he drops the root back into the bowl and advances upon me.

  “Straighten your legs to lift your bottom up and set your feet about shoulder width apart.”

  I adopt the position he describes, aware that despite my trepidation, my quim is already moistening. He will see, he must be able to tell in the bright daylight still streaming through the window. Sure enough, he draws the flat of his hand through my drenched folds from front to back, then drives one finger deep into my arse. He is not especially gentle, though this is now a much practised manoeuvre between us and he does not hurt me. I lurch forward and my squeal is more one of surprise than pain and perhaps a generous helping of humiliation.

  “Get back in position as I instructed and keep still,” he growls as he drags his finger out, then shoves it back in again.

  “Sir, please…”

  “Quiet. Unless I ask you a direct question, you will remain silent whilst you are being punished or I shall gag you.”

  I clamp my lips together and fight back tears. His driving thrusts into my backside are not exactly pleasant, but it is his terse voice that destroys me. I have angered and disappointed him and the consequences will be severe. Perhaps he intends to fuck my arse and I know he can make that hurt if he so chooses. I whimper as he adds a second finger. He has used little in the way of lubrication and his curt treatment of me is both harsh and painful.

  “Reach back with your hands and pull the cheeks of your bottom apart for me. I want to see your rear hole.”

  “Sir?”

  “Is something not clear to you, Imogen?”

  “No, sir. I am sorry,” I whisper and I do as he asks.

  He waits several moments, his fingers stil
l deep inside my bottom whilst he circles my exposed anus with his other hand. “So pretty. I do love your arse, Imogen and I much prefer to treat it as plaything than as a means to punish you. Still, needs must prevail and I have something very effective in mind for you today as this is a lesson I do not intend you to forget easily. Do you know why I have brought ginger with me, Imogen?”

  “No, sir,” I concede.

  “It is to go in here,” he announces, thrusting his fingers into me again as though to emphasise his intention. “You will find it most uncomfortable, but I gather the pain may be mitigated if you can manage not to clench.”

  “Sir?” I am baffled, not sure I heard him correctly. Can he intend to insert the ginger into my bottom? For what purpose, for heaven’s sake?

  Gray chuckles. “Ah, Imogen, do you doubt me? You will understand soon enough. Hold still whilst it goes in.”

  He pulls his digits out of me and picks up the piece of ginger. “Hold your cheeks apart and push back against the root. It is wet so should go in without too much force being required. I prefer not to have to be too rough with you, but it is going in.”

  He pushes and the tip of the root enters me. The girth is much less than his two fingers so the sensation is not too intense. He presses again and more of the length penetrates. Still it does not hurt and I start to relax, just a little.

  “That is good. One last inch or so…” He shoves again and the rest of the root slides into me. The muscles at my entrance close around the carved rim, holding the ginger in place.

  “You may let go now but remain where you are.”

  I fold my arms under my chest and wonder what might happen next. I do not have long to wait.

  “Ooh! Oh, sir, that feels strange.” A sharp tingling has started to creep along the length of the invading root. I do not think I like it much. Indeed, I know I do not. I start to wriggle on the bed.

  A sharp slap to my buttock reminds me of his instruction to remain still. I endeavour to do so, but with every passing moment the burning itch becomes sharper, more unbearable. I am clenching around the root and instinctively I reach back with my hand, seeking the protruding end.