Chapter Three
“I hate formal dining: sitting there, all trussed up whilst eating some goddamn, cold soup and having to chat with a widgeon – or some bacon-brained fellow – I ask you, is it necessary?”
Mr Daniel Lockwood – classical scholar, philosopher and bachelor.
Hestia Rashford, Viscountess Dewsbury, and the one responsible for the entire house party, prodded her husband of one and a half years. He didn’t move. She did it again, and a faint snore emanated from the prone body lying next to her.
Flopping back on the bed, she scrubbed away a stray tear. She loved Nathan passionately, and had always believed it to be a love reciprocated, but since the birth of their child, he had grown distant – even cold. No longer did he welcome her with an embrace, and her kisses were subtly rejected. She had tried to talk to him, they’d always shared everything, but he insisted that all was as it should be.
The doctor, after her discreet enquiry, had informed her that they could start conjugal relations again after the birth of their son.
Nathan, however, had not as yet seemed inclined to resume. She’d tried to broach the subject with him. Perhaps he had an illness? They could talk about it? He’d grunted that he was busy, and his eyes coolly slid away.
To provoke a reaction – any reaction – she had tried heated kisses, tender kisses, even a subtle and not so subtle caress: he was not interested. He always moved away, said he had work to do, or more hurtful, that he was meeting friends.
Hestia growled into the pillow. She was sure Nathan loved her, despite his distant manner. Why then would he not make love to her? It had been over five months now – five, lonely months without his touch. It wasn’t merely the pleasure she missed, but the close intimacy of lying skin to skin with her soulmate.
Another tear escaped down her cheek, and she furiously rubbed at it. They’d been childhood friends, and Nathan had always said he would marry her when they grew up. She’d believed it a fairy tale, especially when he went away for his Grand Tour. Avoiding France, due to the war, he’d instead travelled to the Mediterranean – Portugal, Spain and Turkey. He had returned two years later – a man, lean and strong.
Hestia was, and always had been, on the voluptuous side – extremely curvaceous – and not at all in the current style of slender waifs. However, when Nathan had come back from the Tour, he’d whisked her into his arms, desire burning in his eyes, and she had never looked back.
Until now.
The birth had taken a slight toll on her body, with lines across her stomach, but she’d youth on her side and quickly lost the added weight. Still he did not come near her, and although it broke her heart to leave their son, Harry, for a week with the nanny, she’d decided she had to – for her marriage.
She hadn’t told Nathan beforehand, but with the amount of guests that she had invited, they would have no choice but to share a chamber – she’d numbered the guests perfectly! However, the sheer horror on his face when he’d realised they were to share a bed, had struck her heart with such an immense pain that she’d had to dig her nails hard into her hand, drawing blood.
The previous night, for the masquerade, she had dressed as Aphrodite. She’d felt sure Nathan would come to her, if only in anger, as the dress was fairly outrageous; he had stayed away. He had talked with friends and danced with a young red-haired girl she didn’t know; he hadn’t even noticed his Hestia.
She left the ball early and had gazed at herself in the mirror. She’d looked ridiculous. The brilliant cherry-red gown with the low-cut neckline looked tawdry on her – worse than a Cheapside whore.
In frustration and anger, she’d cried herself to sleep. Nathan had stumbled in four hours later – drunk.
She prodded her husband again. Still no response, so she sat up, and swung her legs to the floor. Despite it all, Hestia did have a house party to organise, and it had been clear last night that she would receive no help from Rook – only vague appearances. She supposed it served her right, after all, her motive had nothing to do with her dear brother: it was purely selfish.
At least, she reflected, there was not much in the way of entertaining today – the thought of showing a happy façade for the guests made her feel ill. She sighed heavily and padded to the small dressing room.
Nathan opened his lids and watched with a pain-filled heart, as his wife left the bed chamber.
ΦΦΦ
Furtively, Clara watched the Earl of Rookdean from under her lashes. He was talking to a slender girl with black hair caught up in a red ribbon. She was very pretty. Clara buttered more toast and bit angrily into it, causing crumbs to fly and earning her a violent nudge from her aunt.
Breakfast was being served all morning, and the side table was arrayed with a variety of delicacies. Servants were at the ready with beverages, but most people perused and chose their own food. Guests had wandered down when they pleased, after the lateness of the masquerade.
Clara was also a tardy riser; she had woken late, as her sleep had been disturbed with memories of strong hands on hers and a sinful, husky breath in her ear, describing all the wicked things he wanted to do to her.
She frowned severely, honestly, she had no interest in the earl. He was obviously a rake, and although she had no control over her mind’s nocturnal meanderings, she would not let the previous night in the garden affect her daytime activities. She was not here to flirt with men, be they earls or coachmen.
Instead, she savoured her coffee; its rich, hot taste burning her tongue. Her aunt didn’t consider it a ‘feminine drink’, and she had banned it from the house, declaring tea to be the only ‘civilised fare’. Clara, however, loved the strong-flavoured brew and was determined to drink as much of it as possible whilst she was here. She took another sip and closed her eyes in complete ecstasy.
She opened them again to find herself the focus of the earl. His lips were slightly parted, and his expression wasn’t one she understood. It was fixed and remote at the same time, as though he was here, but thinking of something else entirely. The pretty girl still chatted on, but Clara could tell that her words went unheard. She sipped more coffee to distract herself, but took too large a gulp and spluttered. Rookdean’s expression went glacial, and he looked away.
“What are the planned events for today, Clara love?” her aunt murmured softly from her right.
“Er…” She forced herself to look away from the earl’s bored profile. “It’s a ‘rest day’ after the masquerade and travelling. So, writing letters and needlework for the ladies. For the gentlemen…the stables, I believe.”
“Hmmm, where some of them belong! But how dull,” Aunt Agnes whispered. “For all of us.”
