Outrageous Confessions of Lady Deborah Read online

  Handsome Jeremy sweeping her off her feet. His kisses were chaste. The perfect gentleman, she’d thought him.

  Their wedding night. Jeremy’s concern for her innocence. He loved her too much to hurt her, he told her. He loved her too much to subject her to base desire, he said.

  And there she was, younger and infinitely naïve, plucking up the courage to take the initiative after too many chaste nights, innocently pressing herself against her husband’s body. Were she an artist, she could still capture that instinctive flash of revulsion on his face after all this time.

  The messy, unsatisfactory fumbles which followed, eventually carrying her over the threshold from maiden to wife, merged and morphed one into the other, none memorable, all unforgettable. Ignorant and embarrassed, still enough in love to deny her disappointment, Deborah watched herself turn again and again from the look of shame on her husband’s face as he touched himself.

  An angry scene when her uncle refused to advance her inheritance. A furious one later, when Uncle Peter would not be persuaded. Jeremy’s wit, which she had loved, turned cruelly upon her. The pain, still raw, of that moment of revelation from which there was no turning back. Not Deborah, but her inheritance. Not love, but money.

  Coldness then, months and years of it. Their marriage a stark, barren country neither wished to inhabit. Jeremy never kissed her. He never touched her, save for during those shameful couplings, always in the dark, her on all fours, her husband fumbling first with himself, then her. The undisguised revulsion on his face when she turned around to look at him. After that, she was glad of the dark.

  And then the last time. Deborah curled her knees up to her chest, trying to make herself as small as possible. The last time. She closed her eyes, leaning back against the headboard, forcing herself to remember. It came back to her in stark detail, as if it were a play which had been waiting for the curtain to go up.

  Jeremy threw himself from the bed, still clad in his shirt, his utter lack of arousal painfully obvious even in the dim light of the bedchamber. Bruised and aching, her flesh cringing at the very notion of trying again, Deborah sat up, forcing herself to smile, a pastiche of allure. She’d wanted him once. If she could want him again, she could make it right.

  She’d studied the books she’d discovered hidden behind a rare complete set of the Encyclopédie. Fascinated and ashamed, she had perused them, learning from the luridly explicit illustrations just how limited her experience was. Telling herself it was worth the mortification to save her marriage, she touched her breasts, mimicking the drawings. Jeremy’s face took on a greenish tint before it became an angry red.

  The shock of his fist sent her flying back on to the pillows. Blood stained her fingers when she touched her cheek. ‘You hit me.’ The words came from far away. This wasn’t happening to her. ‘What have I done to make you hate me so, Jeremy?’

  ‘You married me.’

  ‘I loved you.’

  He gave her a hard look. ‘Five years we’ve been married and you still don’t have a clue, do you? You never loved me. Poor little orphan Debbie, you were just desperate for a bit of attention,’ Jeremy sneered. ‘God, you made it so easy. You more or less pulled the wool over your own eyes.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Deborah argued, though what he said had an ominous ring to it. ‘I did love you. I thought you loved me.’

  ‘All I ever loved about you was your money.’

  ‘And you’ve had that, you’ve had all of it now, even if you did have to wait for my majority. Jeremy…’ Deborah plucked at the sheet, willing herself to speak, knowing that if she did not, she never would. ‘In all the time we have been married, things have not been—we have not been—I’ve been wondering if this failure of ours was the reason we have not been blessed with a child.’

  ‘Failure!’ Jeremy cursed bitterly. ‘If there has been any failing, it has not been for want of trying on my part. Do you think I enjoy poking away at that soft flesh of yours?’

  Deborah shrank at the viciousness of his look, but five long years of pointed barbs and cutting accusations, five years of blaming herself for failing to arouse him, five years of guilt and frustration, watching her romantic dreams fade, seeing herself transformed into this empty shell—all of this coupled with her new-found knowledge for the first time made her angry rather than ashamed. ‘I know perfectly well that you don’t, you’ve made it quite clear from the first. I disgust you, I always have and I want to know why. What is so wrong with me?’

  For the tiniest of moments, when she saw that bleak look on his face, she felt sorry for him. Then his laughter cut through her pity, bitter and sharp. ‘I find you physically repulsive, my dear wife, because that is what you are. Look at you, playing the harlot in the vain hope that it will make me want you. The extent of your

  naïvety astounds me. Can you not see what is obvious to half the ton? You could never please me, no matter how many tricks you learned. My tastes are quite beyond your ken, my dear wife. I’ve never wanted you. Your only attraction for me was your money and I have done with that.’ Jeremy pulled on his breeches and gathered up the rest of his clothes. ‘I have done with you. I am quite sick of you and the pretence of our marriage.’

  ‘You wish us to separate?’ A flicker of hope sprung in Deborah’s breast, for it was what she had sadly concluded was the only solution if tonight failed. And tonight had failed spectacularly.

  Jeremy laughed again. ‘No, that form of satisfaction I will also spare you. I won’t give the tabbies any more ammunition. Having the protection of a wife, even one such as you, is still something. Since it is quite obvious that my efforts to overcome my distaste for your flesh are never going to result in an heir—another thing you have denied me—then I see no reason to make any more attempts. I am going back to London now. You can remain here at Kinsail Manor. To be honest, if I never see you again it will be too soon. I wish you joy of your isolation.’

  Deborah opened her eyes and found she was rocking herself on the bed, her lashes wet with tears. Her face burned, the kind of burning that comes from cold skin on snow. It was so painful to watch, that little ghost of a person who had been too foolish, too alone, too insecure to stand up for herself. Was she born to be a victim?

  But she had struck back, for Bella Donna had been conceived that night, the only child of their barren union. Her birth, several months later, was a small, secret act of revenge to heat the icy wastes of their marriage bed. But Bella Donna was a panacea, not a cure. When Jeremy died, she’d thought that was the solution.

  Deborah forced herself to uncurl, getting stiffly to her feet. Her heart was thudding, her body clammy with sweat. Her head ached. She hadn’t seen Jeremy again. He had died in his sleep not long after, thanks to a lethal mixture of brandy and laudanum. They told her he’d looked peaceful and she had clung to that, just as she had clung to the certainty that the overdose had been accidental. Whatever his problems, Jeremy would never have shamed the Kinsail name with any hint of suicide. Besides, if he’d meant to kill himself, she was pretty certain he’d have chosen a gun or a riding accident. If there was an explanation for the many contradictions in her husband’s behaviour, not least his determination to keep her officially tied to him, he had taken it to his grave.

  Night had fallen. With shaking fingers, Deborah eventually managed to strike a light from the tinderbox for her candle. This life she had formed for herself since, it was not really a sanctuary but a cell, and of her own making. A prison, the bars she had erected to protect herself serving only to emphasise her loneliness. She could see that now. Elliot had made her see that and, thanks to Elliot, she was ready to make the first step towards confronting it, too.

  Today, she had finished her story. If Mr Freyworth was right, it would give her freedom. The thought kindled warmth in her toes. Perhaps tomorrow she would write to some of her old friends. She was ready now to breach the gap she had allowed her marriage to wedge between them.

  And Elliot? Deborah plu
mped up her pillows and clambered back into bed. Oh, Elliot. How she wished she had known him when she was whole. How much she wished she was not broken, but she was. She could patch herself up, and she could try to find some form of contentment, but she could never be anything other than alone. Perhaps the distance of time would make the past fade, but some things would never heal. Her one foray into love had damaged her and the scars were permanent.

  The way Elliot had made her feel was beyond anything and far too much. It frightened her, but the idea of losing him from her life for ever frightened her more. She didn’t want to retreat back into the gloom in which she existed before she knew him, but tempting, terrifyingly tempting as it was to continue down the path they had taken together in the boathouse, she knew it would be wrong.

  She would fail him and then he would have every cause to despise her. She had to find a new path. Surely there must be some way to forge a friendship which was not so intimate? If she could manage to incorporate repaying him for what he had done for her, too, that would be even better. Happily deluding herself by focusing on this knotty problem, Deborah fell asleep.

  * * *

  ‘You’ve made up your mind, then? Elizabeth will be pleased.’ Alexander Murray swallowed the remnants of his sherry and put the glass back down carefully on the table at his side. His appearance was as reticent as his temper. Neither tall nor short, fat nor thin, his hair was what his doting wife liked to call strawberry blonde and most others would—rather more accurately—describe as ginger. His pale complexion had an unfortunate tendency to freckle in the sun. Alexander was not the kind of man who stood out in a crowd and nor would he wish to.

  Despite which, he had a business acumen second to none. In the City, he was known as The Oracle. In the rather more recondite world of Government financing, to which he lent his considerable expertise in considerable secrecy, he was revered. His position as one of the fast-growing Empire’s unofficial bankers made Alexander’s rather large ears privy to a wealth of information, most of it unwelcome, a very little of it useful, and some of it downright distasteful to his Scots sensibilities. ‘I see the Peacock has been up to his tricks again,’ he said.

  Across from him, Elliot managed to disguise his surprise at the sudden change of subject with a relaxed smile. ‘Yes, you have to almost admire the devil. He’s clearly smart.’

  ‘More than that. I would say he was driven.’

  Elliot raised an enquiring brow. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘The press concentrate on the crime, of course, but it seems to me that there is a pattern forming in terms of the victims.’

  ‘Really? Do elaborate.’

  Alexander beetled his rust-coloured brows. ‘They all are, or were, involved in some way with the armed forces. It strikes me that this Peacock fellow might be a military man with an axe to grind.’

  ‘I see.’ Elliot was not one of those fooled by his brother-in-law’s unassuming ways but he had, it seemed, underestimated him none the less. ‘Have you shared this interesting theory with anyone?’

  ‘Of course not. I have no desire to play the bloodhound,’ Alexander said contemptuously.

  ‘Then why are you telling me?’

  ‘You’re an ex-soldier, I thought you might have an opinion. Come on, man, don’t look so surprised. Your views on how the men were treated are well known. I would imagine you might even be sympathetic to the Peacock’s cause.’

  ‘I heartily approve of his choice of victims, if that’s what you mean. A more deserving bunch of miscreants I cannot imagine.’

  ‘Aye, but my point is, would a regular soldier know that?’ Alex steepled his fingers. ‘I mean, some of the things taken—that diamond of Kinsail’s, for example,’ he said airily, ‘you’d need insider information to know it even existed.’

  ‘Insider information which you are obviously privy to,’ Elliot said drily. ‘I saw no report of a diamond in the newspaper.’

  Alexander smiled ruefully. ‘No, Kinsail kept that to himself, but it was the Peacock all the same. How would such a fellow come by that kind of information, do you think? If you ask me, this Peacock was involved in espionage.’

  Elliot shrugged.

  ‘You worked as a spy for the Government during the war, did you not?’

  ‘What the deuce are you trying to imply?’ Elliot asked impatiently.

  ‘Lizzie would break her wee heart if anything happened to you,’ Alexander said, his face becoming grim. ‘I love that lassie. What she sees in me I don’t know, but whatever it is, I’m eternally grateful. I won’t have her upset, you understand me?’

  ‘You have no cause to worry.’

  ‘Aye, but I do worry, Elliot,’ Alexander said with a sigh. ‘I need your word.’

  ‘I’ve said, you’ve no cause to worry.’

  The basilisk look made Alexander swallow the words of protest he had been about to utter. It was easy to see what it was that had made the man such a fine soldier. ‘I’m relieved to hear it. She’s fretting about you, you know.’

  ‘She has no reason to. Have you set a date for going north yet? Lizzie tells me that she’s set on having that bairn of yours born in the ancestral home.’

  ‘Did she?’ Alexander’s face softened. ‘She’s a wee darling, that sister of yours. I’m a lucky man.’

  Discovering somewhat to his surprise that he agreed, for domesticity had never appealed to him, Elliot got to his feet to show his brother-in-law to the door. He was restless after his guest left. These last few days, he’d managed to occupy himself with disposing of the ivory figurines, paying overdue calls on friends, attending conscientiously to the little business his efficient

  bailiff sent his way. Avoiding thinking, in other words, he now admitted to himself as he prowled aimlessly from one room to another. Avoiding thinking, because he didn’t know what to think, a state of mind to which he was wholly unaccustomed.

  Elliot threw himself into the most uncomfortable chair in his book room and stared at a speck of dust on his Hessians. He still couldn’t quite believe what had happened. To be so close. She had been reaching out to touch him. Just thinking about it made him sweat, and he’d thought about it a lot. What the hell had gone wrong? She had been so—and he had been so—oh God!

  He got to his feet and flicked, unseeing, through the account book which lay open on his desk. It would have been mind-blowing. He drummed his fingers on the desk. He couldn’t doubt that she’d wanted him there in the boathouse, he couldn’t doubt the passion which flushed her cheeks, her breasts.

  Her breasts. Elliot groaned. Dammit! What the hell had happened in that marriage of hers? It went against the grain, but he wished he’d asked Lizzie to sniff out the scandal. Ha! As if he’d have listened! The packet of books his source had delivered three days ago remained unopened in the drawer of his nightstand. Deborah’s books. Which, despite the odds, he still hoped she’d trust him enough to tell him about herself.

  Elliot picked up his letter opener and began methodically to slice through the topmost sheet of paper on the blotting pad. Why was he being so persistent? Why was giving up so impossible to contemplate? Despite the time they had spent together, in many ways Deborah was still an enigma and he was always a man who liked a challenge. Was that it? And if he succeeded in getting her to tell him her story, what then?

  He slid the letter opener back into its holder. He didn’t know. And he didn’t need to think about it, because he hadn’t succeeded yet. No point in worrying about the step after the next one, he told himself, blithely ignoring the fact that planning subsequent steps right to an end point had been his lifetime’s modus operandi. He would give her time to finish that book of hers. She would realise she owed him an explanation. Sooner or later it would dawn on her that if she didn’t, he would accuse her of using him merely to get her Peacock story.

  Had she? Had she thought to pay him with sex, and then been unable to go through with it? For an appalling moment, Elliot considered this, dismissing it with imm
ense relief. She wasn’t capable of such guile. She would come round, he had only to be patient. Until then, what he needed was to do something practical with his time.

  Relieved to be spared any further navel-contemplating, Elliot decided to pay a visit to Jackson’s Salon in the hope that he would find someone on whom to expend some excess energy.

  * * *

  He returned two hours later, considerably refreshed, to find Deborah had called. ‘I beg your pardon, I know you were not expecting me, but I finished the changes to my book in record time and I had to talk to you.’ She smiled nervously.

  ‘I hope you haven’t been waiting too long,’ Elliot said, ushering her into the parlour, surreptitiously checking his neckcloth, which he had retied without the benefit of a mirror, wondering if his hair was in a similar state of disarray.

  ‘I wasn’t sure if you would receive me after—after the last time.’ Deborah stood in front of the empty grate. ‘I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to. Only I didn’t want you to think—I was worried that you might think that I had—had pursued our acquaintance simply so that I could break into houses with you,’ she said in a rush. ‘I mean that was the point at first, but I hadn’t thought—I didn’t mean it to end as it did. And I hoped that despite the fact that I could not—and that I was so stupid—in short, I have come to see if there is a way that we can put that behind us and make a fresh start. If you want to. Though I’ll understand if you don’t and—and—well, that is all.’

  Clearly, she was not ready to explain further. The cost of what she had already said was clear in the way she was clutching at her reticule as if it would save her from drowning. If it had been anyone else, he’d have given up the ghost a long time ago. But there was no one quite like Deborah. Was he prepared to wait? Stupid question. He had no intentions of failing, not now. Elliot disentangled Deborah’s reticule from her fingers and took her hands between his. ‘I’m happy to make a fresh start, but I won’t promise you anything other than that. You must know how much I want you—it was perfectly obvious,’ he said with a teasing smile. ‘And no matter what convoluted logic is going on in that clever mind of yours, I know that you want me, too.’