The Reclusive Aristocrat – Part One

Chapter One

 

Ketteridge, Leicestershire, England, December 1, 1815

 

She was going to die of sheer exposure. She was exhausted. Her limbs were shaking with the effort of simply putting one foot before the other. Her heart was pounding with exertion and weariness, but Rowena Drake doggedly kept trampling through the deserted copse. She had planned to escape the sting of the heavy snowstorm by leaving the road to find shelter in the undergrowth. The springy trees gave little protection, as they were now bare. The early winter dusk was quickly settling, and Rowena was desperate to find somewhere to spend the night. Hopefully, somewhere warm and dry.

Two weeks before, winter had caught the English Midlands by surprise. After a fortnight of dry, frosty nights and open, sunny days, the temperature had suddenly dropped. The wind had turned north and gained strength. It had brought packs of heavy, black clouds, pregnant with snow, which now flogged the empty fields and pastures. The wind blew between the cottages of small villages with a banshee’s howl.

As she trampled on through the hellish weather, weariness and hunger were beginning to take their toll on Rowena, but her journey had not nearly come to an end. Some days ago, she had left her home, Daveston Hall in Cumberland.  Rowena’s half-brother Roderick had become the next baronet after their father died, earlier that year. His estate was situated twelve miles west of Carlisle, and Rowena had covered them on foot, dragging her heavy portmanteau behind her. In Carlisle, she had spent the night in the cathedral, terrified that she should meet any of her acquaintances, if she put up at an inn. Her shame would be known all too soon.

The next couple of days, she had walked over the main road from Carlisle to Lancaster, sleeping in barns and even in the roadside undergrowth. She had not enough money to sleep at an inn every night. In Lancaster, she found a small inn and asked for a room. She needed to clean herself up and have a good meal for the first time in days. The landlady eyed her suspiciously. The woman clearly could not fathom why a lady would travel without a husband, a brother or a father. Rowena had none of these male protectors to help her.

She had been underway on the stage coach from Lancaster to London for several long, uncomfortable hours, but her meagre coins had not lasted very long. When the coach had deposited her on the side of the road just past Tamworth, she had again continued on foot. She was at a loss as to how she was to reach London without money or food, for that matter. Rowena could not even recall the last time she had a meal. It was seven or eight days, maybe, since she had left her childhood home. There had been no more money for food. How low she had fallen, and in so short a time.

Now Rowena kept putting one foot in front of the other, stubbornly ignoring her fatigue and her gnawing hunger. She had not the slightest inkling where she was, and there was no way of orientating oneself, as the snow was now a curtain shielding everything within a few feet from Rowena’s view. Where was the road? When had she lost sight of it? Her foot suddenly caught in a rabbit hole, and she landed on her knees, her outstretched hands keeping her from falling flat on her face.

For a few moments, the lure of giving up was almost overwhelming. She was already numb with exhaustion. She read somewhere once that death from hypothermia was merciful, even blissful. One would just slowly but inexorably fall asleep, never to wake again. Rowena could feel herself drifting away at that very moment … No! No, she must go onward!

Fighting against the wind’s slashing stings, Rowena struggled to her feet and trudged on. She must be soaked to the bone, she thought. Her woollen cloak was drenched, as were her gown, undergarments, stockings and half-boots. Her hands in their sodden leather gloves had long lost all feeling. Sometime ago, she had lost her bonnet, and her hair hung in sodden strands around her face. She had lost her portmanteau long ago.

Eventually, Rowena realised she was going to perish in this white hell. She staggered on, each step more faltering than the one before. No, she would not give up. If she was to die here and now, she was going to die on her feet. She was the Baronet of Daveston’s daughter and she would hold on to her gentle upbringing. It was the only relic she had left of her family.

Then, all of a sudden, there was a light ahead. She blinked against the millions of snowflakes blurring her vision, welcoming the warm yellow glow with immense relief. Rowena waved her arms, shouting against the raging wind. “Help me! Help me, for the love of God!”

 

“Major, there is someone there! Ahead of us …”, James Porter yelled.

The deep, powerful voice of his master, clearly audible against the howling wind, answered in return. “Who goes there?”

“Help me! Please, help me!”

A woman. Some blasted female had managed to go astray on a day like this, and in this hellish weather. “Stay where you are! We are almost with you!”

Major Alexander Raventhorpe, fifth earl of Ketteridge, bridged the gap between him and the woman in three long strides, ignoring the protest of his batman Porter. A second later, he caught her in his outstretched arms. There. He could not have ignored that blasted protecting streak in him, if it killed him. Too many years of playing the soldier had stamped it in. First defend, then protect. If necessary, attack. Yes, that as well.

She was very light, his mind registered. Slender and feather-light. And she seemed to have gone limp in his arms. Her hair, even wet and cold as it was, suddenly caught in the stubble on his chin.

“We must get her indoors!” Alex shouted at Porter. He swept the woman up and waited for his batman to guide him towards the house, which he knew was not far.

“Aye, major!” Porter yelled back and took a firm hold of his master’s arm. “This way!”

Alex Raventhorpe was as good as blind. His eyesight had been seriously damaged by an injury to the head on the battlefield at Waterloo, in June of that same year. He knew the difference between light and dark, could see movements, provided they were not too fast. Occasionally, he could make out forms when they had bright colours. Faces were a blur, but he could fairly judge people’s moods by the tone of their voices. His hearing had considerably improved, since that June day, when he had become an invalid.

They reached the house and entered through the scullery door at the back. Alex lost no time but hailed his cook, who most certainly had to be busy in her kitchen.

“Quickly, Mrs Hall! We need some help with this young woman. She was in the driveway. Can you install her in one of the downstairs bedrooms?”

He saw a flash of her white apron, when Mrs Hall came bustling toward him. “Oh, my goodness, my lord! We ain’t putin’ ‘er in a servant’s room, for sure! This ‘ere is a lady, judgin’ by the quality of ‘er cloak. Mr Porter, take over from ‘is Lordship and put ‘er in the blue room. The bed in there is made. Trixie ‘ll light the fire in no time.”

It was taken out of Alex’ hands in the blink of an eye. Soon he was alone in the kitchen, with the sounds of hasty footsteps disappearing through the servants’ corridor and up the stairs. A lady, then. That definitively needed some enlightenment.

Alex shed his wet coat and hung it on a peg in the scullery. He had not many servants left at Ketteridge House, his country estate. He was the earl of Ketteridge but he hung away his own coat. The estate was in dire financial straits, and Alex had only recently regained most of his former strength. He was struggling to manage his derelict estate with the money from his war time winnings, which fortunately were ample enough. Investing his money in successful businesses had been easy, yet trying to revive his estate and make it prosper again proved a lot harder. He was in dire need of a steward but he had little chance of hiring such a man when he was unable to go to London. There were many matters that Alex could leave to Porter, but searching for a steward was not one of them. With a mental shrug, Alex put his troubles aside and climbed the servants’ stairs, determined to deal with the new problem at hand; the young woman he found in his driveway.

 

On the first floor in Mrs Hall’s “blue bedroom”, he heard his erstwhile cook give orders to Trixie, concern ringing in her voice.

“Easy there, Trixie. Lord, she’s so cold, poor mite, and so thin! We must wash her after we’ve removed those wet things. ‘Ere now, pour those buckets into the tub. Mr Porter said he’ll bring some more soon. You take ‘er by her feet and I’ll take ‘er under the arms.”

Alex stepped inside, careful to stay by the door. He knew Mrs Hall must have put the folding screen in front of the hearth, and he was not as familiar with this room as he was with his own.

“Are you in need of help, Mrs Hall?” he asked, but the cook instantly replied in a panic-stricken voice, “No, no, my lord, stay where ye’ are! It ain’t proper fer ye to even be ‘ere!”

“Mrs Hall, it cannot be improper since I cannot see the lady. Can you manage lowering her into the tub?”

“Well … she’s thin but Trixie an’ me are ‘avin’ a bit of trouble liftin’ her in ‘er present condition, my lord.”

Alex stiffened. “And what condition might that be, Mrs Hall?”

“She’s expectin’, my lord. She’s at least five months gone but she looks healthy enough.”

Wonderful. A pregnant woman, probably a married lady, had landed on his doorstep in the middle of winter. That could only mean trouble and mayhem. Would he now have to deal with an irate husband, too? He inwardly cursed at the notion that his hard-won peace was certain to be shattered in the days to come. He had to get her away from Ketteridge House as soon as possible, damn it all!

In an impulse, he ignored the cook’s startled cry of warning and crossed over to the bed, a white rectangle with blurred contours. He put out his hands until they encountered the figure of the woman. Soft, round flesh, unexpectedly bare and vibrantly feminine. Damnation! Mrs Hall must have already removed her clothes. She was so cold … God! What if she would expire here, in his house?

“Sir, she’s …”

“Yes, I know, Mrs Hall. Let me get this over with, so that you can tend to her as quickly as possible.”

Alex slid his hands under the woman’s limp body, lifted it and settled it in his arms. She was light as a new born kitten, her body slender and delicate. Her dark head fell against his shoulder, causing her floral fragrance to assault his senses. His own body – damnation! – reacted in a most improper but violent way. By Jove, he had no need for this, right now! Knowing how long he had been without a woman’s touch, he should have listened to sane, solid reason, instead of indulging in foolish gallantry. Yet he could not ignore how lovely it felt just to hold a woman in his arms once again.

He let her down into the tub, relieved because at that same moment Porter entered with more hot water, which distracted the two women. Mrs Hall would soon take over, he knew, so he supported the woman, while she rested in the warm water, and made sure her head was above it.

For the space of a heartbeat, he regretted not being able to see her clearly. Her face was a pinkish spot, her body nearly invisible now that it was immersed in the water. But he could feel the silken caress of her dark hair flowing over his fingers, not to mention the velvety touch of her flesh, and the curve of her slender bottom. Gently he let her body drop to the bottom of the tub and then, unable to help himself, he touched her stomach. It was swollen to a gentle mound, and he spread his fingers over it. Suddenly, the babe moved against his hand. Oh God … oh dear God … His heart contracted with a longing ache he had not thought he would ever feel. He would never have this. He would never have a woman of his own, a woman who carried his child, and on whose stomach he could place his hand and make contact with his very own babe.

“Ah …”

Dragged from his self-pity by the woman’s soft cry, he all but growled, “Mrs Hall! Quickly, she is coming round!”

The cook leapt from behind the screen and took hold of the woman’s body. Alex jumped up and fled the room.

The Man Who Killed Hitler and Then the Bigfoot (Aidan Turner)

AIDAN TURNER
IS ‘THE MAN WHO KILLED HITLER AND THEN THE BIGFOOT’

 

Poldark’s shining superstar is moving onto the big screens again: Aidan Turner will play the lead role together with Sam Elliott in THE MAN WHO KILLED HITLER AND THEN THE BIGFOOT movie from  Robert D. Krzykowski! As ‘Deadline’ reports today, the film tells the story of American soldier Calvin Barr (Aidan Turner), who leaves his true love behind to infiltrate enemy lines and kill Adolph Hitler in the heart of World War II. Decades later, Barr (now Elliott) is needed again, this time to hunt the legendary Bigfoot — carrier of a deadly plague hidden deep in the Canadian wilderness. The third season of Poldark is currently airing in UK and in  USA from October.

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‘VANITY FAIR’ EPIC TV SERIES 2018

OLIVIA COOKE TO LEAD THE CAST
British ITV  have found the lead for their ultra lavish television series adaptation of Thackeray’s Victorian saga VANITY FAIR! The seven episode epic series will also stream on Amazon. Mammoth Screen who is producing Poldark and Victoria will be doing this one as well!
Olivia Cooke (who recently went Victorian in Limehouse Golem) will take the lead role of Becky Sharp in the series that follows her stoic and unscrupulous attempts to make her way in English society in the backdrop of the Napoleonic Wars and the rule of King George IV! The shooting starts this September in London and Budapest, so expect other casting updates this summer!

Period Drama Top Shots

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Roman Empire : Reign of Blood Netflix Now.

  ‘ROMAN EMPIRE’ EPIC SERIES
WITH AARON JAKUBENKO AND SEAN BEAN AS NARRATOR
Now here’s something new that you can watch as of today over at Netflix!

November 11th marks the beginning of season one for ROMAN EMPIRE: REIGN OF BLOOD a stylish mix of documentary and historical epic that chronicles the reign of Commodus, the emperor whose rule marked the beginning of Rome’s fall. The series features Sean Bean, who’s no stranger to epic adventure but here he is only a narrator, that hunky elven prince Aaron Jakubenko from MTV’s godawful epic series Shannara here upgraded as the emperor himself, Jared Turner and Edwin Wright!

 

REIGN OF BLOOD!
In the first, opening episode of the six hour series, that airs today, titled Born in Purple, fighting an implacable enemy in Germany, Marcus Aurelius trains his decadent son Commodus to succeed him,

while rumour and intrigues brew back in Rome. The Germanic tribes strike as Marcus Aurelius succumbs to disease, leaving a skeptical Emperor Commodus to prosecute a war that doesn’t interest him. The death of Marcus Aurelius brings a century of Roman triumphs and victories to an end, transferring power to his spoiled, unprepared son Commodus. He rises to power as Rome’s new emperor, but not everyone supports his

ascent. Among those conspiring against him: his older sister Lucilla. Commodus defeats his sister’s coup but withdraws from governing, allowing others to amass power while he engages in an affair and banishes his wife. Later on a disastrous grain shortage leaves Commodus isolated, inspiring him to train as a gladiator in a bid to unite Rome. Lavish imperial games at the Colosseum are highlighted by the emperor’s bloody victories, but his paranoid abuses of power lead to a final betrayal.

 

 

 

 

 

Opening Sequence

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John Thornton, Look Back at Me – pt 14

Chapter 14

     A Gentleman’s  Agreement

 

Margaret strolled over and closed the door to his library, forbidding even the warmth in the room, while she read the letters.  “Why am I doing this?” she wondered.  “This would not have happened with the old Margaret,” she told herself.

Sitting down, she pulled out the little pile of letters from the drawer, all addressed to her.  She noticed a mixture of dates and wondered why John had never sent them.  Two were before their London meeting on the veranda, and the rest were after that day.  None of them were finished.  Why had they lain in wait to be completed?

The ink on two of the earlier ones seemed to have been smeared, and she assumed this was the reason he had never sent them.  However, as she began reading, she realized they had been wet with his tears, and he had poured out his devastated life, and his need of her, with his pen and paper.  Her eyes filled in spite of herself, adding additional tear stains to the inked words.

 

Dearest Margaret

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . that snowy day.  .  .  .  .  . .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . if you looked back.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . .  .  . took my heart .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . alone with only memories .  .  .  .  .  . .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  love you more than .  .  .  .  .  . breath of my life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . able to go on . . .

 

John’s heart and soul were  wrung from his body onto those pages.  Margaret lost herself in his words of love and emotional disaster.  She wept, adding more of her own tears, to the words describing the desecration that she had caused in John’s life.

The next two letters were equally forlorn, but showed a ray of hope.  She remembered that day on the veranda when she discovered that there was more between them than she had realized before, but he, apparently, had known it for a very long time.  He had written that he understood nothing could be done, and she could not speak to anything, but he left that day, happy that she had come into his arms.  He felt he could cope with a life based only on that one memory.  Still, these letters spoke so much of his heart and his hopes, they would never have been sent.  Continuing to weep, she sought out the last two.

The final letters, written after Booker’s passing, showed a tempered joy, no tears, and much hope in the future with her.  There were many references to his intimate and sensual desires, some of which she had heard of last night.  She almost had to put them down, but she continued reading as she fidgeted in the chair.  Margaret doubted these were ever meant to be sent, as he was speaking most passionately from his heart and body.  She came across a strange reference to a sign from his mother.  “Whatever could that mean, with his mother now being gone?”

Still thinking about John’s strife, Margaret stowed the letters back where they came from and pulled out a sheaf of paper.  Suddenly, he came through the door.

They looked at each other, startled, and Margaret wondered if the guilt was prevalent on her face.

“Good evening, John.  I wasn’t looking for you this early.  I wanted to post a note to Edith; Dixon thought you had paper in your desk.  I hope it was alright to take a piece.”

“Yes, yes, of course.  Take all you like.  I’m sorry to disturb you.  I thought you had retired, so I was coming to look for some correspondence that is stored in my filing cabinets.  It’s of no importance; I shall leave you to your letter.  Would you like the fire lit?”

“No, thank you.  I shall be brief in my writing.”

John walked back to the parlor.  He had sensed a stiffness in Margaret, and wondered why the closed door.  That room was freezing with no fire lit.  Feeling a bit uneasy, he picked up the partially read paper from this morning.  Opening the pages, his mind elsewhere . . .

 

The letters!  She must have found the letters.

 

John did not immediately know what to do about it.  He never wanted her to know how bad his life had been without her.  She might think him weak, but it was in every one of those letters.  Why hadn’t he destroyed them since learning of her return to Milton?  As he heard her footsteps coming into the room, John began to pay more attention to his paper.  Eventually, he looked over at Margaret’s quiet form, sitting across the room from him.  She was perched on the couch, looking a bit awkward, as though she wanted to speak, but didn’t know how to begin.

“You look like you have something to say.  Is anything bothering you, Margaret?”  Now, he thought, was as good a time as any to discuss last night.

“Yes, there is John, but first I must summon my courage.”

“Summon courage?”  John thought.  He was certain she was going to bring up the letters.  Aside from the matter of harboring her brother when he was in the country and under an arrest warrant, which he, himself, never understood at the time, she was almost totally defenseless in the use of deception.  However, how was he to explain them, he wondered.

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, clearing throats and shifting in their seats, when John, not being able to wait any longer, said, “Margaret, if it’s about the letters in my desk, you need no courage to summon.  They should have been destroyed a month ago when I knew you were returning.  I am quite ashamed and embarrassed for you to know the state of mind that I have been in since you left Milton.  They do not matter.  That is all water under the bridge.  They are just ramblings of a man who loved and lost.  And the later letters are the delusions of a man in love still, never for your eyes or anyone’s but my own.  They were like a catharsis for me; instead of reliving all those moments of hopes and dreams, putting them to paper helped me not to dwell on my situation every minute.”  He could not bring himself to look directly at her.

“John, how can I apologize for looking at your private writings?  I, too, am ashamed about what I did and I knew I had to speak to you right away, but I wanted to form my response with some thought.  It was accidentally done.  I was looking for paper, but when I opened the drawer, I saw papers addressed ‘Dearest Margaret’,’ and I wondered why you had never sent them.  I can understand the why in each one of them, now.  I will not speak to the contents, but I want to talk with you about me . . . and you.

Silence was suspended in the room; the wait for Margaret to begin was almost intolerable for John.  He had much to say tonight, himself.

“Foremost, let me say that I am sorrier than you will ever know, for the misery I have caused in your life.  It’s been devastating to read.  I have never known of such love from one person to another as you expressed in those letters and last night.  I didn’t see, or know, of that depth with my parents, or in my own marriage, but I am slowly coming to know of it on my own.  You and I have fought our own demons and were lost, but now, we may be found.  My demons were self-imposed, and yours were also imposed by me – unforeseen circumstances and deception by my family – all of your private hell is on my shoulders.

“No, Margaret . . .” John tried to interrupt, but Margaret continued.

“Please, John . . .”  John sat back, but found himself gripping the claw carved hand rest on his chair, with white knuckles.

 

She cannot take all this blame.  It is behind us, now.

 

“John, please forgive my intrusive question and abrupt conduct of last night.  I am sure I surprised myself more than I did you.  It was unforgivably rude of me.  I laid awake most of the night thinking about our conversation, but came to some realizations while eating alone at your table this evening.  Firstly, I asked the question and you gave me your honest answer.  I’ve wondered why I asked it. It seemed to come out on its own.  I think it was in my thoughts because I hope to be part of your life someday, and I guess I wanted to know where the memories might be buried.  As for your answer, because of your deep love for me, you felt compelled to explain yourself, and I think it was a conscious decision you made that ran very deep.  It was a tremendous sacrifice you made and a risk you took for both of us, in admitting those intimate events, you knew would hurt me.  However, you trusted me to see my way through all that hurt, coming out on the other side knowing you have experienced all in life, and still you chose me, unknowing of the woman I may be.

 

She -did- understand.

 

“You did this because you wanted me to know all of you and have faith in your love for me.  I am prostrate at your feet for the great trust you have placed in me to find my way through that, and for the confidence, you knew I needed to recover.”

John was soon going to need to be strapped down in order to keep from coming out of his chair.

“That was not my only revelation that came out of last night, “Margaret continued.  “When you talked about your passionate promises . . .”

Bolting out of his chair, John took to the center of the room, “Margaret, I must insist that you stop there.”

“But . . .”

“No . . . please no buts.  I, too, have had a lot of thoughts, and it relates in a way to that which you are about to speak.”

“If you feel you must speak now John, then, by all means, go ahead.”

“Please try to listen with your head and not your heart.”

The moment was suspended as John paced the floor, running his fingers through his hair, endeavoring to form the hardest words of his life.

“Margaret, I have been very selfish.  You know I love you, but that should only be my concern right now.  Somehow, I’ve adopted the attitude that you are mine, or soon will be, and I have been very possessive in my thoughts, and maybe some of my actions.  You have never discouraged my advances, but that isn’t good enough.  You have lived in innocence all of your life.  You do not know the world outside your husband and me.  I cannot be totally comfortable with your lack of discouragement to me, because you have had nothing to base my affections on, except for your marriage, which you know was never a real marriage of love.  You are allowing me close, perhaps because of your touching naivety, or some obligation you may feel because of how I feel about you, or any number of other reasons.  It may be love, but we don’t know for sure, do we?”

“I think my heart does.  John, I don’t think I understand where you are going with this.”

“I am going to step back and try not to insist myself upon you so quickly.  As difficult as this is to say, I would like you to accept invitations from other gentlemen.  I would want you to compare all of your suitors, so I know when you turn to me, that you do it with a confident heart.  Just think about it, please.  When I thought about those words I spoke last evening, as much as I wanted you to know my heart, I realized I was laying an encumbrance upon you.  I don’t want you to turn to me unless you have chosen me for the one you want to spend your life with, and how can you choose without choices?  You must experience more of life.  For my sake, use your mind and see all the way through this, to the other side, for both of us,” John said, in a very agonizing but serious voice.

“John, I want to scream and yell and beat my fists against your chest, but if that’s what it takes for you to be sure of my decision, then I will do it.  I can understand you seeing it that way with my naivety, but I already know the result.  I know where I’ll be when I reach the other side.  As much as I do not want to be put through this charade, I will accept other invitations, including yours – I will not let you step back that far.  How will you handle my advancements to you?  Am I allowed that?”

“Only in moderation, until you have spent time with other men.”  John replied, almost smiling now.

“Can the Professor count as one?”  Margaret asked with that pouty face.

John, now laughing said, “No.  Spending time with your father figure does not count toward experiences of the heart.”

“You know John, I started out thinking of him as a father figure, but he is closer than that.  Strange, but he’s more like a close brother or sister to me, one who I can really open up to and talk about things that one would never speak to a parent, yet he has the intelligence and life experience to guide me, better than a parent, really.”

“Margaret, I am glad you have such a confidant in your life.  I’ve never had that, even with my Mother, and I envy you.  Perhaps, someday your husband will take on that responsibility.

“Can I ask a final question?”

“Margaret, always know that you can.  What is it?”

“In those letters in your drawer, there was a reference about your mother working on your behalf.  What did that mean?”

“Margaret, that is for another time to explain, but I promise I will some day.”

“So when does this game begin?”

“There is nothing like the present, I suppose, or whenever you feel you are passed your bereavement time, which I think should be about now.”  John said.

Margaret, breaking the tension that had saturated the air, presented her hand for a handshake.  “We have a gentleman’s agreement, then?” she asked.

John, smiling, took her hand and shook it, “I dare to say it’s better than pistols at dawn.”

They both laughed.  Every laugh between them was drawing them closer.

 

Reserve and Reticence – Part Twenty

Twenty – A New Step Toward the Future

 

By the time the necessary explanations had been given, the long summer day was nearly over and Beth and Stephen had returned to The Queen’s Head with Oliver. The boy had consented to accompany them home but only because Mr Charles Thornton had convinced him of the necessity of a proper education.

“You need to learn all about accounting and economics, young fellow!” Mr Thornton had lectured. “You must know how the machines operate, what techniques are used to make cotton, how to manage a factory like Marlborough Mills, if you ever want to become someone of importance in the business. I intend to send my own son to a decent school when he is of age. He will be in need of it and so are you.”

It seemed to have had a result because Oliver was in good spirits and did not balk when Stephen mentioned Eton and Cambridge again. Stephen finally gained some territory in learning to deal with his soon.

Now Beth was in their private room at the back of the inn, a large and agreeable space, set under the roof. It was painted in fading green and pink colours and furnished with dark, solid oak items, which gave it a feeling of homeliness and comfort. Trixie was just done helping Beth into her night gown and now she was brushing out her mistress’ shiny brown tresses. Beth closed her eyes, soothed by the movements of the brush.

The lovely feeling stopped abruptly when the door opened. Trixie gave a startled cry, dropped the hairbrush and fled from the room as she did every night when her master came to join his lady.

“I do not understand why that girl is so frightened by the mere sight of me that she runs like a doe before a wolf,” Stephen chuckled as he stepped closer to his wife.

“Well,” Beth answered, “I myself have a faint idea of how she feels, my love. In your night clothes, your manly chest bared and with that predator’s look in your eyes, you are an impressive figure to behold.”

Stephen, however, had stopped listening. As always, he was overwhelmed with desire, seeing his beautiful wife in her snowy white night gown of silk, trimmed with Brussels lace. Her fine figure, with its delicate curves, was moulded to perfection by the thin, shiny fabric and the chocolate coloured waterfall of her exquisite hair – also as always – aroused him to near breaking point.

“Come here,” he breathed hoarsely and extended his hand. Beth obeyed, her dark eyes dancing with answering longing. When she stood before him, her heart was pounding hard and her body was becoming hot with arousal.

“Undress me, my love,” Stephen begged, closing his eyes and sucking in a deep gush of air, when her fingers began caressing his face and neck in a searing touch.

Beth lay her hands on his shoulders and brushed away the light silken robe to reveal the broad, tight-muscled plains of his tanned chest. Her fingertips followed the spread of fine dark hair that covered it, stroking his taut muscles, kissing the hardened nipples, nibbling at them until Stephen groaned with rising desire. He forced himself to stand still and enjoy her caresses, knowing how she delighted in the feel of his body under her hands. Now she let those hands roam feather-light over the flat, hard surface of his stomach, causing heat to flare wherever she touched. He felt her fingers on the rim of his loose trousers and shivered hard in rapt anticipation, when they eased down the garment. The moment she freed him, he could not bear it any longer and snatched her up. In two long steps, he reached the bed and threw himself onto it, placing her on top of him in one smooth movement as he landed on the mattress on his back. Kicking away his trousers, he shoved her nightgown high over her head, gasping at the sight of her exquisite naked body. Oh, God! She was so beautiful, his Beth!

With meticulous precision, he lowered her onto his rigid shaft, nearly losing it when he felt her folds tighten over his flesh. She moaned in rapture and began moving her hips in an answering rhythm to his own thrusts. His hands flew to her breasts and stroked the soft mounds, kneading the hardened tips with each caress, until she whimpered in mounting desire.

“Stephen … please, do not stop … please, Stephen …”

His own hard intakes of breath echoed hers as their passion rose with every movement and stroke. God! This was torture! Heat rose in shuddering waves with every thrust and exquisite pain kept searing through his brick-hard manhood in pounding gulfs, until it burst into millions of shards as he spilled himself greedily in her hot, silk folds. At the same moment, Beth came in a shuddering cry of delight, and her flesh squeezed tightly around him, sending waves of wonderful heat through his whole body. He held her in a hard grip, preventing her from collapsing onto him for just a few, marvellous seconds, because he revelled in the feeling of her taut, highly-strung form on top of him.

When he felt her muscles relax in the climax’ aftermath, he settled her close to his heart and drew the bedclothes over them both. All was well, all was perfect.

 

~~~~

 

Later, Stephen adjusted their bodies in a more comfortable position, their heads close to one another on the pillow. Beth’s slender limbs wrapped around his under the warm covers. In the light of a candle on the nightstand, he lay admiring her beautiful face, relaxed in deep sleep, her soft mouth curved in a smile. The dark lace of her eyelashes, spread on the fine velvet of her cheeks, caused his heart to skip a beat in shuddering love and affection.

How was it that this wonderful woman had come to love him? Him, a harsh, bitter man, with forbidding manners and no compassionate feelings toward his fellow men. What had she seen in him? It must have been something good for she had opened his heart to so many new things, such as love and compassion. She had changed him into a man capable of true human feelings, one who was deeply interested in the lives of those counting on him to guide and shape their daily existence. She had taught him to love, to care, to fear for those who loved him.

This past day, when he had witnessed Mr Thornton and his little family, Stephen suddenly realized what he wanted from life. Mr Thornton’s deep affection for his son had awakened a similar longing in his own bosom, a fierce longing for a child of his own. Beth’s child … his and Beth’s.

He had come closer to Oliver, today. He had suddenly understood how the boy longed to be independent and strong. Oliver did not think of himself as a son of Stephen because he grew up away from his father. Oliver would never be as close to him as little John was to Mr Thornton.

So, in the rosy light of dawn trickling through the window panes, Stephen sent a fervent pray to the Unknown Force that ruled the universe.

“Please, Lord, I beg you: give me a son of my own, and I solemnly promise to cherish him with all my heart. I thank Thee, oh Lord, for the precious, sweet woman You gave me. I will treasure her with my love and protect her with my life. That I do solemnly swear.”

 

The End

My most sincere thanks are for Joyce Mould, who provided the beautiful drawing adorning these posts. Thanks, dear Joyce.

This entry concludes Reserve and Reticence, my first attempt to a full-fledged Regency romance novel.

Next week, I will start with a fresh one. Please, join me for,

The Reclusive Aristocrat

Rowena Drake is unmarried and pregnant. Her lover, a cavalry officer, has been killed at Waterloo, so a marriage is no longer possible. Her brother, a rich baronet, has cast her out, after Rowena refused to give up her child. Now she is alone and without money, and desperate to reach London to find employment.

Alexander Raventhorpe, fifth earl of Ketteridge, Leicestershire, has been badly wounded at Waterloo, leaving him blind and scarred, with nightmares plaguing him. He has become a recluse at his almost ruined estate, with no inkling as to how he should remedy it.

Fate brings these two people together. Will Love bind or separate them?