530. An Arranged Marriage (Jo Beverley)

Synopsis from Amazon:
Eleanor Chivenham didn't put much past her vile brother, but even she had not anticipated his greedy scheme to dupe an earl into mistaking her for a lightskirt. With her reputation in shreds and her future ruined, a defeated Eleanor is forced to agree to a hasty wedding. But marriage to the mysterious Nicholas Delaney, with his casual elegance and his knowing smile, was more than she'd bargained for. He doubtless thinks the worst of her, but when society gossip tells her all about his beautiful French mistress, Eleanor tries to act with the cool dignity required in a marriage of convenience. But how long can she hold out against his undeniable charm, or the secret desires of her heart?

For the sake of family honor, Nicholas Delaney agrees to wed a wronged lady. In truth, such chivalry runs counter to his carefully wrought image of a carousing, dissolute rogue, the guise so vital to his secret political mission. He hopes to keep his new wife in the background until a spy is trapped, but Eleanor's beauty and fighting wit are impossible to ignore. In fact, she presents quite a challenge to his prowess with women, and a test of his formidable will.

My rating: 4 stars

Excerpt: [Chapter 1]

Eleanor Chivenham lay in the big bed and shivered. There was no fire in her room, and for late April the weather was unseasonably cold. The ill-fitting window rattled and let in a steady stream of chilly, damp air, but this was not what caused her tremors. It was the noises reaching her from the lower floors of her brother’s house. Crashes, raucous singing, and shrieks of feminine laughter told of yet another debauch.

It had been the same nearly every night during the two months she had lived in the narrow house on Derby Square. The days were little better, for the house was constantly dirty and stale from the previous evening, and the staff were slovenly and impudent.

Eleanor sighed for her home, Chivenham Hall in Bedfordshire. She had been left there in peace by her brother, Lionel, until he had finally sold the place to pay his debts. True, it had not been a life of luxury, for only three servants had stayed to receive Lionel’s niggardly wages. So little money had been provided to run the place that they had been reduced to eating only what they could grow themselves, and repairing and patching the old building as best they could.

But it had been tranquil and she had been free. Free to read in the library, to walk about the countryside and visit with the local people she had known all her life. Here in Derby Square there were no books a lady would care to read, no parks nearby to compare to the country, and no friends.

She was sometimes tempted to run back to Bedfordshire and live on the charity of friends, but not yet. For under her father’s will, if she left her brother’s “protection” before the age of twenty-five, she would forfeit her inheritance to him. That would suit him well, she knew, as he had already run through most of his patrimony.

A particularly loud shriek made Eleanor cower down further and pull the thin blankets around her ears. Her brother’s poverty did not seem to moderate his entertainment. Could she endure this for two more years until she came into control of her own affairs? She had rarely been successful in opposing Lionel. He fooled people so easily, not least their parents, and he was skilled at maneuvering Eleanor into situations where she showed to disadvantage.

If Lionel had sold the country estate solely in order to make her life under his protection impossible, she had to admit he might well succeed.

Footsteps, accompanied by giggling whispers, passed by her door. Eleanor reassured herself that she was quite safe from the debauchery, slipping out of bed to check that both the door to the corridor, and the one to the adjoining dressing room were securely locked as usual. She smiled slightly at her own fears. The latter had been locked for so long that the key was lost.

At the same time, she felt it was wise to take every precaution. Though she believed there were limits to what her brother would do to obtain her inheritance, he was becoming increasingly desperate. His debts were doubtless mounting.

Lionel had cornered her two days ago to congratulate her on receiving an offer of marriage.

“Who could have offered for me?” she had asked in surprise. “I know no one.”

“Come, come, sister dear,” he said with a smirk. “I have occasionally introduced you to my guests, when you do not shyly run away.”

“It is not shyness,” Eleanor said tartly, “but nausea which makes me run, brother.”

He laughed. It was his response to every unpleasantness. “”You’re a mite particular for a lady well past her last prayers, Nell. You’re twenty-three — positively antiquated — and yet here I am with a possibility for you. How would you fancy to be a lady, eh?“

“I am a lady,” she retorted. “If you talk of marriage, I tell you, brother, you do not number any gentlemen among your acquaintance.”

“An earl, my dear, has no need to be a gentleman. Lord Deveril is most anxious to woo you.”

Deveril! Eleanor shuddered even now at the thought of him. The worst of her brother’s cronies, if he could be called that at all. He was more an incarnation of evil itself. Lionel, after all, was only twenty-five years old. He was naturally selfish and malicious, but no more than that. It was Deveril, or so it seemed to Eleanor, who had introduced evil into his life in the form of drunkenness, drugs from the East, and vicious amusements.

“I will never marry Lord Deveril,” she had said with absolute certainty. She would die first.

“So haughty!” he had sneered, but she had seen he was put out. He wanted this marriage. “Lord Deveril has a way of getting what he desires, Nell, and he would be more inclined to kindness if you were to go willingly.”

“He does not know what kindness is. Mark my words, Lionel, the answer is no and will always be no, do what you will. I will never be forced so low!”

She shivered slightly now at the defiance she had flung at him. It had been foolhardy, but she had been driven by fear—fear of Deveril with his cadaverous body, moist lips, and snake eyes. He even smelled like a corpse. She shuddered at the thought. Life under Lionel’s dubious protection was infinitely preferable.

She was startled out of her thoughts by a knock at the door. “Who is it?”

“It be Nancy, Miz Eleanor. I brung you a hot drink, ma’am. A body couldn’t be sleeping through this lot.”

The voice was as soft as it could be and still carry through the door. Nancy was quite new to the house. She was young, pretty, and perhaps sly, but she had treated Eleanor with respect, and the thought of a hot drink was pleasant. The girl was right. The chance of sleeping seemed remote for hours to come.

Eleanor padded across the threadbare carpet, shuddering in the chill even in her voluminous flannelette nightgown, and cautiously opened the door. There was only the maid standing there, red hair slightly disheveled, with a covered nightcup in hand.

“Thank you, Nancy,” Eleanor said as she took the cup. “This is very thoughtful of you.” She tried to repay kindness with kindness. “You would be well advised not to return below.”

The girl colored, but gave her a saucy look. “I must do what Master sez,” she retorted. Her thick accent spoke poignantly of the country life only recently abandoned for the greater opportunities of the city.

Eleanor signed. “As you will. Thank you, anyway.” She felt so sorry for such as Nancy. When the inevitable happened she would be thrown out to live as best she might. Beyond a warning, however, Eleanor was powerless. She carefully locked the door before hurrying back under the blankets.

The bed felt pleasantly warm after the chill of the air, and the aroma of the spiced milk lifted Eleanor’s spirits. She sipped. Goodness, there seemed to be a little rum in it, too. It was too sweet for her taste, but it was comforting and she drank it down. She snuggled under the covers again.

The drink had relaxed her, and she soon found herself dozing, less bothered by the sounds from below. She did not know whether she had slept or not when a noise teased at her consciousness.

A lock scraping.

The long-unused door to the dressing room was squeaking open.

To her horror, Eleanor found that her limbs seemed to be weighted and nerveless, her mind tangled in wool. Her vision was blurred even though she blinked to clear it. Worse still, she could only focus on one small spot at a time, and that only by great effort. Struggling, she heaved herself up a little in the bed and saw the girl, Nancy, come over to her.

“Happen you’re not comfy with that plait, Miz,” Nancy murmured with a smirk as her fingers went to work. Eleanor would have liked to object, but it seemed too much effort. If she slept with her long hair unbound, it would be in a terrible tangle in the morning. The girl was only trying to be kind, though. But what on earth was she doing to the buttons of the nightdress?

Nancy pushed her gently down again. “There, miz. That’s right pretty.”

Eleanor gratefully allowed sleep to claim her again.

Meanwhile, in the disordered drawing room below, a stranger to Lionel Chivenham’s set was finding the night equally nightmarish.

Christopher Delaney, Lord Stainbridge, had intended only a peaceful evening at White’s, but as he left he had been gathered up—that was the only way he could think of it—by Chivenham and some of his cronies gaily celebrating the end of Napoleon and the return to power of the Bourbons. Short of violence, he had found no way to disentangle himself. He was not a violent man, and after all, he and Chivenham had been in the same form at Eton, though he had never liked the man.

Though he had permitted himself to be swept along to Chivenham’s house, one look at the company there had determined him on an early exit. To his surprise, however, he had found one kindred spirit, a Frenchman with an interest in Chinese porcelain and art almost as strong as his own. Somehow the time had passed and a quantity of wine had been drunk as they explored the subject.

They studied a few select items that Monsieur Boileau had brought for Sir Lionel’s consideration. Only later would it occur to Lord Stainbridge to wonder why a debt-ridden Philistine such as Chivenham would be interested in valuable works of art.

Sir Lionel came over to join the pair. He picked up a graceful jade horse. “A delightful piece, is it not, Stainbridge?”

“Exquisite.” Lord Stainbridge felt the word did not come out with quite the precision he would have wished. He feared he might be slightly foxed, a most unusual occurrence, for he was moderate in drink.

“Exquisite as a lissome boy, you might say, eh, Stainbridge?” That was Lord Deveril, a loathsome man. A shiver of fear stirred within Lord Stainbridge. He looked up to see he was the focus of malicious eyes. Even Monsieur Boileau was smiling cynically.

He found his brain did not seem to be working with its usual swiftness. Repartee was beyond him. “No,” he said, taking refuge in terseness.

“Perhaps you are right,” said Lord Deveril amiably. “Some of those delightful young men are incomparably beautiful, are they not?” He leant forward confidingly. “Such as the ones in a certain house in Rowland Street?”

Lord Stainbridge fought to keep his panic from showing. What they were suggesting was a capital offense, and even if his rank protected him, he could never endure the scandal.

He couldn’t seem to think straight… even more alarming, it was as if a stranger had invaded his mind and was saying that none of it mattered anyway. This surely was not only wine working on him!

With resolution he rose to leave, and his suspicions were confirmed. He had reasonably good control over his muscles. It was his mind that was awry. Somehow, when Chivenham put his arm around his shoulder, he found himself going with him without resistance.

“Don’t be shy, my dear friend. See, we have someone special for you.”

Lord Stainbridge found himself face to face with the charming young man he had recently encountered in that certain house in Rowland Street.

The lad had remarkably large brown eyes framed with long lashes, and retained the ability to blush. Young Adrian smiled with the seemingly genuine delight that had first attracted the earl, but with great effort, Lord Stainbridge did not respond. Terror sat like ice in his heart.

“I fear you have made a mistake, Chivenham,” he said, grateful to have gained some control over his wandering wits. “I’m a ladies’ man, myself. Been married, you know.”

“My apologies, Stainbridge.” Sir Lionel fairly oozed contrition as he turned them both away from the bewildered youth. “I have been grievously misinformed! I only wished to please you after you have been so good as to enjoy my hospitality. I must make amends,” he gushed. “Tell you what! I have a lovely lady above stairs, a virgin no less, anxiously awaiting my pleasure. I give her to you.” He swung around to announce his generosity to the crowded room. It was met by a raucous cheer.

Lord Stainbridge felt he was in hell, surrounded by grinning, jeering faces made macabre by the flickering light, by swirling smoke from the fire and the candles.

His mind was weaving out of control again. He wanted only to be gone. “Too kind. There’s no need. I’m sure—”

“Not at all, dear friend. I will be bereft if you don’t.” Sir Lionel was steering him toward the door. “After all, some of these gentlemen might take my earlier words amiss. If you serve the doxy well, what can they say? Come along. Please.”

“Aye!” shouted some anonymous voice. “Show your stuff. Don’t like to think I’ve been drinking with a backgammon player.”

“You see,” said Sir Lionel in distress. “And all my fault. Prove them wrong, my dear Stainbridge, and I will present you with this beautiful horse which was the cause of all the trouble.” He picked up the horse and held it up temptingly. “Exquisite as a lissome woman is it not?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” He had only meant to agree with the description, but somehow he found himself being led unresisting out of the room. It seemed easier to go along with it all. He could perform. His brief marriage had proved that at least. And the jade was superb. It deserved a better home than this…

Eleanor came to consciousness when a noise again penetrated her dulled mind. She looked up and tried to focus. Wavering in the light of a single guttering candle, her brother and a stranger stood looking at her. The stranger was tall, pale, and slender. Both he and her brother seemed to be at the far end of a very long tunnel. This was strange when she knew her room to be, in fact, rather small. With horror she saw Lord Deveril move into the scene as well.

She heard their voices as if from far away. She tried to speak but found it quite impossible.

“There you are, man,” said her brother’s voice, slurred with drink. “A sweet virgin. I’m sure you’re eager to show those Captain Sneerfuls you’re a real man. And then there’s the horse. Prove yourself on the jade and you gain the jade, eh? Good, that! Gain the jade! Ha!” He fell into a drunken paroxysm of mirth. “Fail… well, there’s no question of that, eh?”

Her brother staggered forward, or perhaps that was just how Eleanor saw it, to lean on her bedpost. His cravat hung loose, his collar was all awry. As he thrust his head forward his smooth, round face seemed suddenly grotesquely large and distorted. She saw the malevolent triumph in his eyes and moaned slightly.

“She… she don’t seem very willing,” slurred the second man coming closer. He was not so very tall after all, and he had the narrow hands and face of a saint, or was that her vision again? This was a most peculiar dream.

“Nervous. Virgin. Told you. She’s willing enough, don’t you fear. Come on, girl,” Lionel said loudly. “If you’ve changed your mind, get up and out of here and don’t come back!”

Full of sick horror, Eleanor strained every muscle to heave herself up off the bed. If necessary, she would crawl out of this room and out of this house. The only effect, had she known it, was to make her lean forward in a parody of a whorish invitation, her long, chestnut hair tangled around her and her loosened nightgown giving a tantalizing glimpse of her breast.

Lord Deveril came forward and chuckled as he pulled her nightgown down yet further, his eyes glinting. “That’s my pretty! Don’t let the fine gentleman down, but don’t you worry. If he won’t serve you there’s plenty down below who will. You’ll get your dues come morning.” He and her brother laughed uproariously at this and swayed out of sight.

Eleanor’s arms gave way. She sank back upon the bed as her ravisher loosened his clothes.

He loomed above her, wild-eyed in the dim light. She managed one word with a tongue that seemed to have grown enormous. A feeble, “Please!”

“All right, all right,” he muttered, flinging back the bedclothes. Cold air cut at her, convincing her of the reality of this nightmare. Horror crept over her, pulling at her mind with claws. She tried again to move.

He stared owlishly at her nightgown. “Is this the new style for whores? God almighty!” He fumbled with the buttons and she flopped a hand up to stop him. He brushed it away. “I’ll do it.” Then he ripped the threadbare garment down the front.

Eleanor felt herself whirl into a deep pit of darkness, and she welcomed it.

“You’re like a bloody rag doll, doxy! Come on. Earn your pay. Serve the man!” Stinging blows to her cheeks brought her back from the welcome dark, but she could not summon any movement. Her legs were wrenched apart and the darkness hovering at the edge of her mind crept in again. A weight settled on her. She heard a muttered curse, then fled back to oblivion.

A vicious pain dragged her partway to consciousness. She heard a muffled scream and realized it was her own. She opened her eyes again and tried to beg for mercy. She saw for a moment the monstrous, gasping face that was to haunt her nightmares for months to come. Then the saving blackness returned and stayed…

Eleanor was unaware of the good humor shown by her brother when he gave up the precious piece of jade, accompanied by earnest apologies. Nor did she hear the conversation between him and Lord Deveril when Lord Stainbridge had left.

“Pity he didn’t admit to his real tastes,” muttered Sir Lionel. “That would have been a useful lever.”

“We will find some other,” said Lord Deveril coolly.

“I’m surprised you gave up this pleasure, though.” Sir Lionel gestured to the bed. “Any whore would have done as well.”

Lord Deveril walked forward and squeezed an exposed nipple with his dirty, bony fingers. The body on the bed remained inert. “What fun is there in this? Before tonight my choice was to take her drugged like this or in a violent rape, and I’m too old now for those games. But tomorrow I think you’ll find she’s a great deal more willing to consider my offer of marriage. When she’s my lady and has her wits about her, then I’ll take my pleasure. I’ll enjoy her hatred more when she is compelled to conceal it. And we may yet gain some advantage from what has happened tonight. Our leader has a way of finding benefits in the most unlikely situations.”

He then covered Eleanor with a sheet. “Guard my betrothed well, Chivenham,” he said with a chilling smile. “I will come tomorrow with the ring.”

That same night, in Paris, Lord Stainbridge’s brother, Nicholas Delaney, was kneeling beside the body of an Englishman of his acquaintance. He had realized very quickly that there was nothing to be done. He had seen enough men die to know that Richard Anstable’s harsh breathing and irregular heartbeat could last only moments longer. The man had also lost a great deal of blood.

Nicholas was on his way home to England from India and had taken the opportunity of Napoleon’s abdication to visit Paris, closed all his lifetime to the English. He had stayed for some weeks for a number of reasons, not least of which being that this time home he thought he might stay. A pause before a momentous decision seemed appropriate and, in view of the exciting times in the French capital, didn’t appear to bother his “entourage.”

He wasn’t quite sure how he had acquired the three companions: Tim Riley had attached himself in Poona; Georgie Crofts—usually called Shako-had been picked up on the Cape; and Tom Holloway—an old fellow-traveler—had been met up with in Italy. Tom was along for the company, but Nicholas knew that to the other two he was their way home. Tim had been debilitated by fever in India, and Shako was a sailor who’d lost his right arm. They had both become devoted attendants. Nicholas hoped they’d become less embarrassingly devoted once he’d got them on their home ground.

He’d bumped into Richard Anstable three days ago. He knew the young man slightly and had been happy to enjoy a couple of evenings of his company. Richard was one of the new diplomats sent out to Paris, and Nicholas had gained the impression that his work was not so much concerned with the peace negotiations as with tracking down Bonapartist sympathizers. That seemed a little pointless now the emperor had abdicated and been sent to Elba, but governments were known for suspicious uneasiness.

Nicholas had certainly not expected to find violence in the company of the mild, pudgy young man. He had come to Richard’s rooms for a few hands of piquet and found him like this.

Poor Richard. He put out a hand and brushed the mousy hair back off the dying man’s forehead.

Richard’s eyes opened, but Nicholas was sure he could see little. “It’s Nicholas, Richard. Lie still. I’ll get help.” It would be no use, but he had to say it.

The eyes closed again, but the lips moved. “Tres. It’s Tres…Tell them…”

“I’ll tell them,” Nicholas promised, then made a guess. “The embassy?”

Richard smiled slightly, gasped, and died.

Nicholas felt grief and rage wash over him. Death was so absolute. A moment ago there had been a man, now there was only a corpse. Richard Anstable had been a stranger, really, but a pleasant young man with the gift of enjoying life. Nicholas wished he knew who had taken that life away, ruthlessly shot him twice in the chest. And why.

The least he could do was to take his message to the embassy. Tres. Was Richard speaking French? In French, tres meant very. Or was it a name? Perhaps someone would know, and perhaps there would be something he could do to the people who had killed Richard Anstable.