The Scandal of the Season (18 page)

Very much against his wishes, Alexander found himself enthralled in the drama. He had not noticed until now that the composer and librettist had found a story so well suited to the present situation in England. It was an episode from Tasso: the Christians' siege of Jerusalem. An apt choice, for the story was fraught with the drama of religious enmity. Yet how cleverly it was done, he saw, and felt the prickling agitation of jealousy. What a superb aria the Siren sang: how simple, how truly surprising—but menacing, with its steady, relentless rhythm. He acknowledged, with a sinking feeling, that it was superior to anything he himself had written. This Mr. Handel must be a clever fellow, German or no.

In her box, Arabella leaned over to the Blounts' aunt and said, “I am in need of some air. I shall return presently.” Her companion, assuming Arabella meant that she needed to find a chamber pot, nodded and turned back to the performance.

Arabella stood up, walked out of the box, and leaned back against the wall in the dark passageway. How could she endure the rest of the night? Lord Petre's question had promised such exquisite relief, but here she was once again, pressed between Martha Blount and her aunt, with nothing but more conversation, more standing about, more tedious gallantry to follow. He would leave with the men, she with the women. And they would meet each other in a fortnight's time, as good as strangers again.

 

Seeing that the men were all attending to the drama, Lord Petre withdrew from his seat. He knew that the right thing to do was to have a piss and return to the performance. But how could he shake off this sense of anticipation? He could attend to nothing. He walked into a room just off the passage. He might have known that a crowd would be waiting there for the chamber pots, but felt that he couldn't bear to stand for twenty minutes watching people urinating noisily in front of him. He walked out onto the street and opened his breeches in the alley beside the theater. Probably not a very sensible thing to do, he reflected as he came back inside.

At the top of the stairs, he paused before turning back to the men's side. He might just go around to where Arabella was sitting and look in. Nobody need see him. He would put his head around the doorway, and leave immediately.

 

But she was standing in the passage.

“My lord!” she exclaimed as he walked up to her.

“Bell,” he said, and gave her the kiss that he had missed out upon before. His hand was on the back of her neck, his thumb pressed to her jaw. With his other hand he took hold of her shoulder, so that she could not turn away. The kiss was brief—had they been in public it would hardly have drawn notice, but for the force with which he held her.

“Forgive my rudeness earlier. I came to render the debt I owe you.”

“An oversight, my lord. There was much to distract you.”

“There was but one thing to distract me.”

She smiled.

“Bell, will you come with me now?”

She froze. Even now she could withdraw from this with dignity; nobody need know what she had felt this evening—what she had felt ever since she had seen him. But it was impossible. She knew that she must refuse him, yet found that she could not.

“My things,” she stammered, “they are within—the Miss Blounts will—”

He held a finger to his lips to silence her. “I shall take care of them,” he said, and walked into the box.

Bending down to the girls' aunt, Lord Petre whispered, “I found Miss Fermor outside. She is unwell—faint with the heat. I shall send her home with my footman. It is fortunate that I happened to see her, but do not be alarmed, madam. Do not thank me; I shall return before the act is over. Will you hand me her things?”

Teresa, overhearing the exchange, leaned forward to speak.

“My poor cousin!” she whispered. “I wondered why she had not resumed her seat. I shall—I must—accompany her, my lord, to see her safe home.”

But her aunt put a hand on Teresa's arm as she began to stand.

“You will stay here with me, my dear. Miss Fermor is in the safest hands.” She looked at Lord Petre with a smile that he knew not how to interpret. “You are kind, my lord,” she said.

“It is my great pleasure, madam.”

He returned to Arabella and offered his arm. Lucky that Teresa had not been allowed to come outside with him, for Arabella now displayed an animation that spoke of not only excellent health but excellent spirits.

“Let us go, madam,” Lord Petre said.

She gave one of her proud, impenetrable smiles, and replied, “By all means, my lord.”

T
his would not be the first time that Arabella had ridden in a gentleman's carriage late at night. It was customary for girls to be driven home by their admirers, and as she walked down the stairs beside Lord Petre, Arabella recalled past coach rides, which generally took place after the gentleman accompanying her had had a good deal too much to drink. The journeys had therefore followed a predictable pattern of hastily confessed ardor and urgently executed seduction. But when Lord Petre handed her into his carriage, he did not spring in behind her, and for a moment, Arabella believed that he really
was
going to send her home alone with his footman. He had merely gone to give directions to his driver, however, and she sat bolt upright, smiling very brightly at him as he finally climbed into the coach. He took his seat opposite her, but made no attempt to close the window coverings, so that they could clearly be seen to drive away together in the direction of Arabella's house in St. James's.

The movement of the coach caused them to sway to and fro, making it difficult to concentrate. Lord Petre did not seem concerned as he looked out the window at the lighted buildings they were passing by, but Arabella tried to meet his gaze, to show herself, as much as him, that she was not afraid. Now that they were alone together, she was conscious of having moved beyond the orbit of the familiar. In previous late-night encounters, this would have been the moment in which her admirer would tack amorously across the carriage toward her, murmuring in a thickened voice that he had never beheld such beauty as hers, or such exquisite charms. Taking hold of whichever part of her person would admit purchase, he would press his lips to her own, and, with uneven proficiency of execution, would fondle her person for as long as she was willing to support it. This was usually very little time at all, and the episode would conclude in a resentful silence that lasted until the carriage arrived at Arabella's front door.

Lord Petre, however, did not lean in fervently, but sat opposite, swaying to the motion of the carriage and looking at her with an unhurried air. “I trust that Miss Fermor is not, in fact, indisposed,” he said eventually.

Arabella smiled, but her heart beat quickly against her stays—how strange that she should feel so much more agitated by Lord Petre's steady gaze than by the overtures of her previous suitors. “Miss Fermor's disposition depends upon the circumstances in which she finds herself,” she answered with a smile, hoping that he could not see how quickly it faded. “I will confess to feeling a little faint,” she added. “The carriage is somewhat close.”

“Allow me to open a window, madam. That will make you easier.” He did so, with another smile, and she wondered if he might be laughing at her.

After a few more minutes, Arabella realized that the lights of shops and buildings were no longer visible outside; they had turned off down a narrow, unlit laneway. She felt her fingers pricking and her throat tightening with alarm.

She tried to steady her voice as she said, “I fear that your driver has lost his way, my lord. We are in a secondary street, some distance from my family's town house.”

She thought that she saw Lord Petre smile again, but in the dark shadows of the carriage it might just as well have been a sneer. He made no attempt to stop but said instead, “I believe that you are right. If he does not regain the proper course shortly, I shall ask him to pull up.”

Arabella felt a rising sense of panic. What was she to do? Not a soul knew where she was.

The carriage jangled to a halt; they were in a deserted alleyway. Lord Petre's footman sprang down from behind and opened the door, the catch giving a sudden, loud click that made Arabella jump again. Lord Petre leaned out of the door, saying quietly, “Will you take her in, Jenkins?”

As the footman put out a hand to help her down, the lantern he was holding cast a pool of light over the damp ground below the carriage door. She tried to spring down lightly, conscious that Lord Petre was watching her, but she lost her footing on the step and stumbled. She gave a little cry, and the footman's hand closed tightly on her arm to steady her. His grip was painful, and she looked up at him with an expression of fear that she was unable to conceal. He took no notice, but with his hand still closed around her arm, led her around the back of the carriage, and toward an opening in the alley wall. Arabella squinted, trying to make out the dark forms that were obscured by the glare of the lantern.

They went through the low doorway, and Arabella was surprised to find herself in a stable yard. Jenkins now walked ahead of her, and the altered position of the light made it easier to see—there was a much larger gateway for carriages to come through, and Jenkins was now helping the driver open the wooden doors that were closed across it. As she stood alone she began to shiver, but at last Jenkins returned and led her to the back of the house. He hung up the lantern, taking a night candle instead, and showed her into the dark kitchens.

It was a relief to be inside; the low-ceilinged room was warm from the ovens, and Arabella's little heels walked more securely on the flat stone flags of the floor. Jenkins gestured to a doorway at the side of the kitchen, where there was a flight of stairs. They began to walk up, Jenkins's candle making hollow shadows on the white walls, prompting Arabella to look behind her. These must be back stairs; she was surprised. They had not been built since the Great Fire, except in large mansion houses of the last century. The Petres were even grander than she had thought.

The way up, of course, was empty, but as they passed the ground floor of the house, they heard a clatter of footsteps. Jenkins stiffened, and pressed himself against the dark wall next to the doorway. Arabella stood stock-still, dreading that he would put out the candle and leave them in darkness. The little flame seemed the only familiar sight in this strange place. But the footsteps faded away, and the house was quiet again.

They climbed to the second floor, and Jenkins turned into a door on the left, which let into a tiny bedroom, sparsely furnished. Arabella surmised that it was his own, and walked quickly through. A door at the other end of this little closet gave onto a much larger bedroom, handsomely appointed. With a shock, Arabella realized that it must be Lord Petre's. She looked around quickly, noticing a high-beamed ceiling and dark wainscoting—the house was old—forbidding in the dim light. There was a large high bed with draped curtains—like Arabella's own, in fact, though upholstered in a dark brocade—but she quickly averted her eyes lest Jenkins see that she was curious. A large fire burned in the fireplace, but it was far from the bed, and it seemed far from Arabella, too; the room was chilly, and she hurried after Jenkins, her heels ringing on the old wooden floorboards.

He opened another door, and they entered an adjoining sitting room. A rush of warm air enveloped her, and she saw a large, bright fire in the grate. It blazed up, crackling from a recent tending. The room was lit with wax candles, their flames glowing against the walnut grain of the furniture: a fine carved desk, a pair of tables, a long sofa, and two armchairs, upholstered in the new style. But nobody was there.

The servant withdrew, and Arabella sat down on one of the chairs, upright, too awkward to lean back. She could hear a ticking clock and the spitting fire, but nothing more. She had no notion at all of what to do—the gleeful spirit of contest that had once so possessed her was gone. Being alone in a man's chamber was quite different from the harmless coach rides she had known so far, and the flirtations that she had mastered in the ballroom seemed absurdly out of place here. She was struck anew by the enormity of what she had done; how foolish she had been to imagine that she could be in command of the situation. She had known of unmarried girls who had been ruined by doing exactly this—she thought of Maria Granville, whom she had ridiculed to Teresa at the Exchange. She sat with tightly clasped hands, her knuckles squeezed white.

But to her relief the spark of rebellion that had prompted her to come did not desert her entirely. She made herself unlock her hands and lean back into the arms of the chair. After a moment or two she stood up, walking over to look at her reflection in the large mirror hanging above the fireplace.

The warmth of the fire began to relax her. She put her hands up to her face to pinch color back into her cheeks, rubbing and sucking at her lips to make them bright again. She stroked her hair, arranging the two curls on either side of her neck, and smiled at her reflection, faintly at first, but then with more assurance, as she walked back to her seat to wait. Again she asked herself why she had come. Was it a momentary whim, an instant of madness? She did not believe so. She had taken a great risk, but in spite of that knowledge she did not regret her actions. For the first time in her life she felt that she had found her way to adventure, and the discovery made her realize how much, and for how long, she had dreamed of it.

The door opened from the hall without, and Lord Petre entered. He walked over to the sofa by her chair and sat down on its edge, one leg folded under him, the other stretched out in front to steady himself. He tucked his sword in neatly beside him and leaned toward her.

“I cannot believe that I have you here,” he said, smiling. To her relief she saw that it was the boyish smile again, the one that had so attracted her at the Exchange. He got to his feet again and poured out a glass of wine for each of them.

He handed her a drink. “How are you now?” he asked.

“Quite recovered,” she replied, taking a sip. It flowed through her pleasantly, reassuringly, making her forebodings appear foolish. Lord Petre did not appear to be agitated in the least.

“I am glad to hear it,” he said. “Had you been faint, I would have suggested that we loosen your stays.”

She said nothing, but felt a renewed tremor. As she took another sip of her wine she wondered if perhaps this feeling could be anticipation. He caught her eye. He was smiling again, but devilishly, and she wondered if he had guessed her thoughts. He took the glass from her hand and put it down on the mantel.

“I wonder if we had better not do so in any case.”

Do what? thought Arabella. Oh! Loosen my stays. So this is how it was done, she reflected, and the word
seducer
flashed across her mind. She felt another rising of anticipation, and recognized that the feeling, far from being alarming, was pleasant.

“I would be inconsolably disappointed were you to faint, now that I have you here,” he said, as he took her hands and raised her up to stand beside him.

She smiled, this time archly, and answered, “I am afraid that I have no experience of unlacing my own stays. Betty is always by to help me.”

He was very close to her now; she could feel his breath on her cheek. She thought that he would kiss her, and she lifted her face toward him, but he said, stroking her on the neck, “What does Betty generally do? Can you recall?”

“As a rule, I am seated upon a stool,” she said.

He took her by the hand and led her to an upright chair.

She shivered—it was certainly excitement now. “Yes, somewhat like that one,” she said. “She unbuttons my gown—” Arabella felt his fingers on her back. They moved quickly, and she knew that he had done this before. But where she would have expected to feel jealousy, she felt a twinge of gratification—perhaps even pride—that he was so adroit.

“Then Betty unties my petticoat,” she continued, “and helps me to unlace the stays. It is a delicate task, but I suspect that you will be equal to it.”

He stood behind her, and the palms of his hands arched over her shoulders, his fingers stroking the white skin of her throat. He pressed his thumbs into the hollow of her collarbone, and she felt him lean over to trace, lightly, the swell of her breasts made by her stays. She could hear him breathing quickly now and her own heart was pounding. She wanted to touch his hands and his face, but she sat still, letting him take hold of her.

At last he lifted her face up to his, and began to kiss her. Not the clammy touch that she had known in the past, but hungrily, without restraint. She knew that his skill must be the product of practice, but, curiously, that made it all the more pleasurable. The power that she had noticed when he moved and spoke was now concentrated upon herself, and though his lovemaking seemed impulsive, she also admired its deliberate force. He was in command of the situation, and she arched up toward him, infected by his desire and determination. He pulled her to her feet.

“Bell, you are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen,” he said. “Would that I could keep you always just as you are in this moment.” She felt his hands under her stays, on her skin, as he explored the curve of her waist; his fingers pressed into the little space beneath her ribs. “I pray that you may never change,” he mumbled.

He pulled her close to him, and her gown and petticoat fell to the floor around her body. He folded his arms about her and kissed her again, and she felt, with a shock, the outline of his penis. It was hard—it startled her—she had never felt a man's member before. But she noticed that he was not self-conscious at all as he began to push her backward toward his chamber. She stepped over the little barrier made by her outer garments.

His room seemed nicer now. The fire had burned up brightly, and a candle was flickering next to the bed. Jenkins must have put it there before he retired, Arabella thought with surprise. Lord Petre lifted her onto the bed. The cavern made by the bed curtains was warm and comforting. He kicked off his shoes and knelt beside her, his hands on her legs.