Page 11 of A Gifted Earl

Chapter Four

They had been in London for three days now, and, so far, they had barely seen Lord Jasper – he was out late every night, did not eat dinner at home, and was generally too busy with his own entertainments to bother with them – which suited Venetia and her mother perfectly. They had been to the modiste’s, and the milliner’s, and Venetia felt as if she had pin holes all over her from the measuring and fitting. The milliner had assured her that she could create bonnets and head pieces which would partly hide the scar – which made her feel a little better about it all.

Still, everywhere they went, people noticed the scar, and stared. If this was how people reacted on the street, how much worse was it going to be at a ball, amidst the cream of society?

If it had not been for the scar, that terrible branding which reminded her at every moment of her own rash foolishness, she would have enjoyed herself – for the gowns she was to have were beautiful, and she had always loved dancing… But she had also always wanted others to find her attractive, to be pleasant to her.

She lay in her bed, tired, but unable to sleep, remembering, over and over, the expressions on people’s faces, during the day, as they had noticed her scar. It was a waking nightmare.

Eventually, she rose, pulled a robe around her, and slipped out of the room. She would go down to the kitchen and find some small thing to eat, and perhaps something to drink. She had always done that, as a child, and Cook had left a little tray out for her, just in case. She smiled at the thought.

The house was dark and still – in the darkness, she could almost pretend that it was still theirs, that her father still lived, and that all was well – almost. In the kitchen, she went to the sideboard where all of the pots were lined up, ready for the morning, and there, just as it had been years ago, was a small tray, with a glass of sugared lemon water, some bread, some cheese, and some sausage.

At the sight, tears welled in her eyes, and she stopped before touching it, that potent symbol which told her that someone other than her mother still cared for her. It took some moments, but she regained her composure, and took the tray to the kitchen table, to sit and eat. When she was finished, she set the tray back where she had found it, and turned to go back to her room.

As she stepped into the corridor, the back servant’s door to the house opened, and Lord Jasper, obviously thoroughly in his cups, stumbled through. He turned, fumbling, and locked the door. It must, Venetia realised, have been left open specifically for him. She froze where she was for a moment, then cautiously tried to slip back into the kitchen, silently.

She must have made some sound, however, for Lord Jasper turned sharply, his eyes searching his surroundings until they lit upon her. A strange smile crossed his face then – it was harsh, almost predatory. The silence extended – she did not know what to do – her first instinct was to flee, but he was between her and the stairs. She took a step back, finding herself against the doorframe, as if the threat of him had pushed her. That movement seemed to free him from whatever had held him still, and with two long strides he was close in front of her.

His arms shot out, going one either side of her, trapping her against the edge of the door as he leered at her.

His voice, when it came, was low, a little rough from drink.

“Well now, what have we here? A wanton, barely clothed, wandering the halls in the deep of night – something that no decent woman would do. If you’re going to behave like the cheapest of lightskirts, I can only see that as an invitation – one I am happy to accept. After all, with that scar, you should get used to being grateful for any attention a man might deign to give you.”

The words shocked her, pinning her in place as surely as his arms did, but then he laughed softly, and the growing chill of fear inside her was replaced by fury. She would not accept this as her fate!

He bent his head, moving his body hard against her, his lips seeking hers. The stench of the spirits he’d consumed accosted her senses, and she nearly gagged. Then, triggered by that, the fury drove her and, rash as always, thinking of nothing but escaping the situation, of punishing him for his arrogant, demeaning presumption, she twisted at the last moment, forcing his lips to her cheek rather than her mouth, and lifted her knee forcefully, ensuring its firm collision with his most private parts.

“Ooomph.” Barely able to speak at that moment, he staggered back, his arms dropping to clutch at his injured parts, thus freeing her. She spun and ran. His voice followed her up the stairs. “Ungrateful slattern! You’ll pay for this, I swear!”

Venetia didn’t stop running until she was in her rooms, with the door barred behind her. Then she flung herself down onto the bed and cried – tears of anger, frustration and more. She wished, desperately, that she had never taken that jump, had never put herself in the situation which had resulted in the scar. But she had, and nothing would ever be the same again.

And for the next few months, she had to live in this house – this house which was full of her memories, and which was now occupied by Lord Jasper. She did not doubt his paucity of character, nor the fact that he would, after tonight, be attempting to trap her at any opportunity. It was just another thing which would make her life miserable, just another thing which brought home to her how hopeless their situation was.

*****

As he had done so often since that June day, Morgan woke from a dream where he was sewing up an injury on a girl’s face. In the dream, it took forever, never being completed, and he woke exhausted, certain that he had done a terrible job. He sat up in bed, staring at the rather opulent room around him. So much had changed since June…

Had he done a good enough job? Was the young woman horribly scarred? He would likely never know, for he did not know her name. He knew of her mother simply as Lady Hardenwell, a widow – but he’d had no indication of her actual title – she might have been the widow of a Duke, or of a Baronet, each as easily as the other. It hadn’t seemed important to know, at the time – but now, everything was different. He might, as likely as not, meet the mother and daughter out in society – if, that was, he had done a neat enough job on her face for her to be venturing out in society at all.

What if he had not? If he had not been able to save her ability to be seen in society, he would feel guilty, no matter that her fall was no fault of his.

He shook the thoughts aside, rang for his valet – and that was still a strange concept, indeed – and rose. He had a great deal to do, today as every day since he had received that fateful letter, informing him of his uncle’s, aunt’s, and cousins’ deaths. The responsibilities of the title weighed on him, as did the fact that his uncle had not been the best of managers, and had left his estate in less than perfect condition. But Morgan was not one to shirk. He accepted the challenges, and faced them with determination, even though, much of the time, he wished himself back in the simple life of a stablemaster.

Today, he would spend hours with the new estate manager he had employed, and with the family man of business, reviewing his investments and the plans for the coming year’s crops. He prayed that the crops would do better than those of this year, and last year, for the weather had been dreadful, and the harvests poor.

He was staring out of the window, contemplating all that faced him, when his valet slipped into the room.

“I have meetings this morning with the man of business and the estate manager. Please dress me as you see to be appropriate, if you would, Mullard.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

Mullard bowed, and went into the dressing room, returning shortly with clothing which he laid out on the bed. Morgan submitted to the strange process of having someone else dress him, his mind going back to the day ahead, and all that must be done.

Tonight, he was to attend a Ball. He did not, he had concluded, like society events at all, but attending them was necessary, as was being a member of White’s, and socialising with gentlemen there. Without the connections that such things brought, he would not have access to good investment opportunities, nor, when the time came, to a woman suitable for an advantageous marriage.

That thought made him shudder, causing his valet to make a tiny, exasperated noise as the movement made his hand slip while adjusting Morgan’s cravat.