She, Lady Sculthorpe, Judith Lovelace, did not have nervous fits. She had never had nervous fits. Ever. Not as a debutante, not as a bride, not as a widow. And certainly not at the idea of sharing her bed with a man.
What she did have was monthly courses, which had arrived in the wee hours of the morning with a conflagration of deep-seated cramps and a heavy flow. A once-a-month season that shedespised so completely she had to remind herself that it meant the fertility that had brought her three remarkable young lads. Three blessings in her life. In the long view, the pain was worth it.
While this thought brought some consolation, it did not make the current moment any easier.
Judith took another deep breath and touched the note on the right again, one almost blank. It had been a carefully folded and sealed piece of foolscap, with no greeting or signature. It featured only seven words.
After ten. As you wish. With caution.
Her throat tightened as she read the words once again. But then so did her thighs. And the muscles across her lower back, sending a shooting pain through her hips.
Damn him. Damn being a woman. And damn their timing.
Judith had issued an invitation to Mark last night after supper, when her body had craved his touch so much her mouth went dry and her stomach clenched. Her own fingers on her body had been woefully inadequate, only further driving a need almost beyond bearing. So she had beckoned him to her bed tonight. Judith had completely befuddled the poor hall boy who had sleepily received the missive she had hastily scribbled, sending the lad off to the Rydell residence with the request and the instructions to her home, her bedroom, with final guidance to be provided by Epworth.
His acceptance—those lovely seven words—had arrived later this morning, not long after Judith had awakened in intense pain, ringing for her maid. Epworth, who tracked Judith’s schedule almost better than she did herself, arrived bearing ginger-and-yarrow tea without being asked. She ministered to Judith with tenderness, bringing the thick rags from the basket in her dressing room and helping position them, then fetching a hot brick for the bed.
When the messages had arrived, Judith had ignored them until now, when she had managed to emerge from her bed—but barely—the constant, rolling aches making it hard for her to sit straight. But it had to be done: she faced rescinding the invitation to Mark in the most delicate, discreet, and least hurtful manner possible. Judith reached for the teacup resting near the edge of her escritoire to find the heavily sweetened but still abysmal liquid had gone cold. “Damn it.” Her muttered words accompanied a wince of pain as another cramp gripped her abdomen.
The abominable nature of being a woman. She knew not every female had such a difficult time—her mother-in-law had made her well aware of that fact. Her midwife assured them both that some women did but had once promised that having a child would ease the intensity of Judith’s monthly courses. They had not. The intense pain had lessened for a few months after each birth but eventually returned in full force, often crippling her for two or three days, much to her frustration.
Epworth always responded with extraordinary care, usually arriving in mere minutes with a heated and linen-wrapped brick or bottle of hot water along with a round-robin of teas made from ginger, yarrow, willow bark, or motherwort. They all helped, but nothing truly resolved the agony but time.
Blinking, with another ache clutching her belly, Judith turned her focus to the other note, one almost as short but equally exciting.
Well...almostas equally exciting. And without a new layer of dismay.
Bait cast. Attendance ensured. Requested seating in place. B.
Blackwell. Dear God in heaven, how in the world had he pulled it off? When Judith had requested that he inviteAtkinson to his and Lady Blackwell’s ball, he had been unaware of Atkinson’s ambitions toward the aristocracy. Once Lord Anthony understood, however, he had ensured Atkinson’s attendance by casting the ultimate bait for any man desiring admission to Society’s elite: the presence of the Prince Regent. An introduction to the prince would put Atkinson one step closer to a possible grant from the king. Atkinson would not miss the opportunity except under dire circumstances.
Now there was little to do but wait for the ball. And perhaps coach the three women a bit more. The three younger women seemed to act as if silliness were an artform to be coveted and embraced rather than controlled and focused. But they could wait.
Mark was the most immediate concern. Judith pulled a piece of foolscap from its cubbyhole, opened her inkpot, and began to compose a brief note. Not an easy effort as desire warred with pain that warred with propriety. But satisfied with the results, she blotted, folded, and sealed it.
Judith leaned back in her chair and released a long sigh. At least by next Friday she would be past these awful aches. Judith pushed up out of the chair, forcing her body to straighten as she hobbled to the fireplace. Epworth had sent one of the kitchen maids up to build a nice, constant blaze—every female in the house understood Judith’s agony, even if they did not experience the severity themselves—and to explain the situation to Nanny, who would provide a reasonable excuse for the boys as to Judith’s absence, as she did each month. Judith turned her back to the flames, letting the heat soak into her muscles, as a light tap sounded on the door.
“Enter.”
Epworth pushed the door open a few inches, then alarm lit her face. “My lady? Why are you up?” She entered carrying a trayhold a steaming teapot and fresh cup and saucer, along with a small bowl of sugar. She hurried to set the tea tray on the bench.
Judith gestured to the escritoire. “Please see that the missive to Lord Mark is delivered as soon as possible.”
Epworth moved to her side. “You must sit, my lady. I brought fresh tea.”
“Might as well. What is it this time?”
Epworth eased an arm around Judith’s waist and guided her toward the bench. “Motherwort and ginger.”
Judith winced.
“The sugar will help.” Epworth’s voice held a low soothing tone. “And I have the maids bringing up hot water.”
“I needed to respond to Rydell. Obviously, he cannot come here tonight. Will you see to it?
Epworth, who knew about most of Judith’s late-night visitors if not the details, helped Judith ease down on the bench. Epworth then picked up the now cold brick from the end of Judith’s bed, unwrapped it, and used the fireplace poker to slide it into the coals. As she tended to the tea, she glanced at Judith. “Are you sure the gentleman’s presence would not bring some comfort?”
An image of how Mark had held her flashed through Judith’s thoughts, but she pushed it away. “The gentleman is not expecting to come watch me moan and gripe like a wounded animal.”
