*

WHEN LOVE IS

WITHOUT REASON

*

Constance J.  HAMPTON *

Volume 3 in the

Wellington’s  Officers Series

*

Editor: Alex Blackburn

*

Published by  Hermesse James Boekerij , The

Netherlands

ISBN/EAN 9789492980 106 (Epub)

MMXVIII- IV

*

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the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

*

Copyright/all author’s rights/2017  Constance J.

Hampton,  Hermesse James Boekerij

*

Constance J. Hampton ’ right to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright  Designs and

Patents Act 1988

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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are fictitiously, and are not to be construed real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or

organizations is entirely coincidental.

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All rights are reserved.

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critical articles and reviews.

*****

PROLOGUE: A BAD DAY FOR ELLEN

BURROUGHS

-

Port of Rotherham, 1794

“Milord?”

Cyril Fairfax, Earl of Rotherham, looked up with a frown. One of his grooms had just brought his favorite horse to the quay.

“Captain Bouchier?” he asked when he saw the captain of the ‘Countess Anna’ descend the gangway.

“This young man here,” Bouchier pointed at a boy of about eight years that was following him, “says someone would like to see you at the inn.”

Cyril’s frown deepened, but the boy had already gone ahead, right into the only inn Rotherham possessed.

She was waiting for him in a private parlor. When she turned around he could not help but gasp with shock.

“Ellen? My, God, who has done that to you?  Not…?”

He was not even aware that he had taken her into his arms until a very young voice shouted: “Unhand my mother, sir!”

He slowly let go of a disheveled Ellen to turn around.

A boy stood there, his hands clenched into fists.

Cyril had a déjà-vu of his long-dead brother Perry about  to punch him in the nose.

“Make a leg to the Earl, Jeffrey!” Ellen commanded him with an imperious voice.

The boy threw his mother an uncertain look, but then bowed at Cyril in an impeccable leg.

“Jeffrey?” he asked Ellen.

Ellen Burroughs, Baroness of  Caversham, nodded at him with a frown and sat down on a high-backed chair.

“My youngest boy,” she said, “I apologize for inconveniencing you, Cyril, but I heard your ship was to deliver you here. I… I need…”

“Caversham has beaten you?”

His hand went to her jaw that looked black and blue.

Ellen peered at her sons. The three of them were standing silently near the window of the parlor. Silent and knowing.

“He went into a rage after I asked him for money for food. Cook has deserted us. He went for her with a whip. She did not want to work for a madman, she said. I only have young Gareth left in the house, although he went without pay for months. He drove us here.”

Cyril felt his temperature rise to steaming rage.

“Where is he?”

Ellen shook her shoulders. She was wearing an old fashioned cotton dress that must have seen about all of the nine years of her marriage to Guy Burroughs,

Baron of Caversham.

“York, probably. Worst is that he took all the money that I kept in the house.”

“You only have one footman left and no money?” he asked in amazement.

That produced another shrug of her delectable shoulders.

“Did you eat today?”

“That’s why mother took us here!” her youngest son  interfered in the conversation.

Without answering the boy, Cyril walked to the  door, threw it open and shouted for the innkeeper.

“How were you to pay for it, if not ask for credit?”  he asked her later when they had all had a big bowl of  stew, cheese and bread.

“I was going to pawn my pearls. I’d have asked the  goodman’s assistance with it. He’ s an honest man.”

She was referring to the innkeeper.

“Your pearls?”

Not the ones he had given her a few years ago?

She bent her head.

“I’m sorry, Cyril.”

She was damned sorry?

He felt the old pain creep into his chest. Damnation,  he should have married  her all those years ago! Then  she would not be in this dreadful situation with a wife -

beater, a gambler and a crook.

He looked at the young boy again, the one that had  been brash enough to tell him to keep his hands from  his mother. Damnation, the boy was  Perry incarnated!

He lifted his brows at her and then sent a look at the  boy. He was only five years old, but very tall for his  age. Ellen just shrugged again. True, one could never  guess the parentage of a child, even if he looked so  much like Perry. Caversham was also big and blond.

“Listen,” he said, “this is what we’re going to do…”

**

PROLOGUE: ELLEN’S FLASHBACK

-

Rotherham, 1789

She opened her eyes slowly when he started to stroke her fleshy hip again.

“Cyril?”

Her smile became wanton when he  kissed her full,

soft lips.

“You were falling asleep, darling, but I want you

once more…”

She lifted her hand to her honey blond hair that

spilled around her oval face.

“Cyril,” she whispered, “What, again? We just... you

only…”

“Well…”

He hesitated.

“Maybe you’re right, and I should go home?”

He contemplated hurrying off to Annette who was  going to have the child probably today. Her pains had  started in the morning, but according to his still  inexperienced opinion, he had decided that Annette  might wait a bit longer to bring his heir into the world.  The midwife was not going to allow him close to his  wife, anyway.

He guessed he had been too eager to steal this hour  with Ellen, but now that they were both still here, why  not take them both for another  ride into bliss? Ellen

was the best when it came to it. She had always been

the best.

He looked down at his body that for some reason

was losing its enthusiasm rapidly.

Ellen sat up, purposely showing off her lush assets.

“What is it? Ah, you are suddenly impatient to go home to your countess, is that it? Don’t worry, darling, first babies are never in a hurry to come into this world, not even yours.”

She drew herself against him, moving her hands slowly over his broad, bare chest, down to his muscled hips.

“Christ,” he murmured, “you are my goddess, Ellen.  See how I worship your body! I’m so ready for you!”

Ellen worried her lip with her teeth. God, the man was always so easily aroused!

Her hand wavered above his arousal, which had come alive anew.

She peered at the strikingly handsome man, who had been her lover and her childhood sweetheart for years

now.

Her eyes seemed to change from their usual grey of a quiet sea to the dark slate of a thunderstorm.

“Tell me about it, Cyril,” she whispered, “tell  me why you allowed Guy to marry me! Tell me why you have a pregnant French slut awaiting you now in that very fancy house of yours!”

He did not want to hear those spiteful words. God, he hated it when women made a scene or nagged him.  He only wanted her expert hand to touch him. It wasn’t like Ellen at all to nag him!

“Christ, Ellen, touch me and I promise to tell you why. Come on, Ellen…! Do it now! I need you!”

She clasped him tightly and he fell backwards on the rough cot with a moan. Ah, but he had been very happy

that his clinging wife had become too big with child to  care where he spent his afternoons.

Ellen moved to cradle his lap and sat leisurely over  his thighs. He felt her sweetness on his leg and moved  his hips to shift her closer to him, but Ellen just smiled  a wan smile, refusing to budge.

“Tell me now, Cyril. Why did you marry that chit  instead of me?”

Oh God, the dreaded question! Why were women not like men and happy with the pleasant tumble now and then?

He looked into her indignant face.

“I married her for her money, of course; what else,  Ellen? Don’t nag me, I had to marry one day, and you were married to Burroughs for over three years when I decided to do the honorable thing, at last.”

Ellen pleasured him with short rapid strokes.

“Ellen, darling, please,” he pleaded, “let me get inside of you!”

She smiled broadly, and then put her lips on him, grazing him with her teeth.

“What is it, my beautiful love? You would not want to hurt me, would you? You know you do not have to be upset about  Annette! Ouch, darling, easy, easy!”

She suddenly launched herself on top of him, taking him inside her in one swift movement.

His hands roamed over her lovely, pendulous

breasts.

“God, Ellen Fitzhenry,” he breathed, “you’ll be the

death of me one day!”

”What money?” she asked harshly, “Annette did not

have a penny!”

He groaned, turning his head in the hard, straw-filled pillow. His hands stopped to cradle her breasts and his hips moved upward with abandon.

“She was dirt rich, don’t you know? She cashed

every penny she could get her hands on in France. She  sold everything; her father’s castles and lands,  everything. She bought me, my precious, and  that…is…a...bloody…fact!”

The last frantic move of his hips brought Ellen over  the edge and they climaxed almost at the same time,  crying out with abandon, enhanced by the fact that they  knew they were all by themselves in a distant hovel.

He slowly lay back on the pillow, breathing heavily,  pulling Ellen’s head onto his chest.

“Now,” he croaked, still speaking  with an effort,  “what was that all about?”

His hand started to caress her long blond tresses.

Ellen hid her face in his chest.

“I’m bloody breeding again, Cyril.”

His hand stilled. He moved his head to look at her.

“Is it mine?”

She let out a slow, resigned sigh.

“How am I to tell? My husband still comes to my  bed. He’s only thirty-one and as horny as they come,  remember?”

Cyril muttered an oath and pushed her away from  him.

“I thought you despised the man!”

She sat up beside him.

“Do you think that  keeps him away from my bed?

Think again, Cyril. He likes it when I loathe him while

he gets the better of me.”

Cyril got up with an exclamation of disgust.

“Let’s go,” he growled, his voice heavy with unspoken anger, “the Tanners are due to come back anytime.”

She moved to the edge of the bed.

“When will I see you again?” she asked quietly.

He pulled on his breeches and tugged his boots on.

“Tomorrow!” he promised.

He could never stay away from her. She had always been his very first desire and would probably be his last. He never understood why. The world was full of willing women, but Ellen Fitzhenry had been stuck in his head, and another place, for a long, long time.

He kissed her neck before putting on his shirt.

“Unless she takes all day to have the child. I’m not sure if I can escape the harridans that crowd my house now.”

She was still sitting on the bed, in all her naked glory, when he left the room.

She smoldered with anger. He was going back to that one, wasn’t he? After all his promises, he  had allowed her father to sell her off to the detestable Guy  Burroughs, Baron Caversham.

Her father had wanted her out of the way and he was not going to wait for a fickle man to propose to her, if she could land Guy Burroughs.

He had hated Cyril from the start; for his handsomeness, his easy manners and his roguish pirate ways. Back then Cyril was only the old Earl’s second son and Terrence Fitzhenry had wanted a title in his family; a title he found in Caversham’s young, new, but dissipated baron.

He had never shown any regret about her marriage to Guy after Cyril had landed the title of Earl of  Rotherham when his brother Perry died in a fight at

sea.

Terrence Fitzhenry had known that Cyril Fairfax would never ask for his daughter’s hand in marriage because he had recognized the opportunistic streak in  Cyril Fairfax, something which Ellen always preferred to ignore.

Why buy the cow when the milk was already being given away free?

Cyril Fairfax would move on to grab fortune and possible glory wherever  he could. He did not need  Ellen at all.

Terrence had cursed his strikingly beautiful daughter’s wantonness and had planted her with Guy  Burroughs, who had been after her for years.

Cyril had not dared to show himself for a long time after the bloody event of her marriage, until he came home with that French bitch with her crooked accent and her sweet manners.

Not much later, Cyril had told Ellen what a bad mistake his marriage to the French countess had been and she had fallen for his excuses… again.

If  she could only deny herself the pleasure of those afternoons in the Tanners' little hut! Nevertheless, she knew she would keep stealing those afternoons until she was too big with the new child to ride a horse.

“I wish I could hate you, Cyril Fairfax!” she said aloud.

At least now she understood that there had been a dowry, that he had not married Annette du Plessis for love; small consolation that!

She dressed slowly. Tonight she would tell  Burroughs that she was breeding again. Maybe he would leave her  alone now and go to one of his milkmaids, who did not disapprove of his cruel bed manners, or get himself back to York to his whores.  She wanted a long reprieve from her sadistic husband’s rough ways.

Outside the hut, she untied her horse.

She looked at the sun.

It was late; the children would be awake when she came home.

She slid on her saddle and sighed. She could have slept in Cyril’s strong arms forever: this new babe was dragging all the energy out of her already.

Her thoughts shifted to Annette du Plessis, who at that moment was crying out in the throes of labor.

Good luck to you, Countess, she thought darkly.

You bought him with your gold, but that could not keep him from bedding with me while you are thrashing about in pain due to the babe he put in your belly.

Cruel world, no?

**

KIT BRONDEMEIRE’S PROLOGUE

-

London, 1807

“Good lord, Kit! Are you still here?”

Anthony, Marques of Andover, fell onto the couch in the brothel's sitting room next to his brother.

“I don't think he intends to go anywhere except for another turn upstairs,” a lazy voice commented.

Tony looked at the disheveled figure of John  Montgomery, Marques of Lorna and Kintyre, who lay slouched in an oversized wing chair.

“He's awaiting Broadhurst's return. They  happened to fancy the same chit tonight,” Lorna declared with a yawn, reaching for his brandy glass.

“They threw up a coin as to who could have her first and now the loser is still at it.”

Tony frowned at his tall dark-blond sibling.

“Shouldn't you be home with your new little wife? I understand you are under orders to go to Southend in a few days?”

Kit lifted a lazy shoulder.

“Home to do what, Tony? I understand the few times I was allowed within two feet of her I was only shooting blanks anyway. In any case, the little Lady  Brondemeire has been indisposed for weeks on end, if you care to know. If you want an heir for Andover you'd better get your sorry ass back to Pamela.”

Tony sat down next to Kit and frowned. Pamela birthed a girl earlier in the year  and claimed not to be ready for any marital relations. He knew his beautiful little wife was sulking.

He heaved a sigh.

A fine mess he had made there! He should never have married her in the first place! He should have known better than to fall in love at thirty-two with  Devon Broadhurst’s little sister.

She was such a little beauty at eighteen, ethereal and innocent. The  old reprobate in him had fallen painfully hard for her. His father's anger at his idiocy had only driven him on. He had wanted her badly; the little innocent beauty who became his heart's desire.

In the end, there was one month of marital bliss for him. Until the fateful day that his father put a pistol into his mouth and pulled the trigger, after having lost his last bit of un-entailed property to the loan sharks who had hovered around the dissipated marques for years. He was not addicted to the card tables only, but was also dependent of the stuff that came all the way from China, which was eaten and smoked by many an addicted man in the dark hells of London.

Pamela Broadhurst had brought him nary a pound when she married him in the chapel of the rickety  Allington Castle, the home of her father, the Earl of  Allington.

Tony, in the throes of his love for her, did not mind her impoverished state in the least, because he was unaware at the time that his father was heading down the road of his final degeneration, dragging everything of worldly value into the pit with him.

Before he fell hard for Pamela Broadhurst Tony was too busy courting the King’s daughter, hoping that the old monarch would not object to a future marques of the realm as a son-in- law.

He had been such an idiot!

He still was not certain if the little princess had been playing him false.

It was a moot point, anyway. She had died of an affliction of the lungs, leaving a trail of whispers that the lung disease had been brought on by the pox,  which the King’s doctor’s son had transmitted to her person in the age old way. For God’s sake, he was not even allowed to kiss her hand, but that filthy lowly swine had been seducing her and sharing her bed!

Tony turned elsewhere. This time it was the sister of a duke of the realm, but it was made clear to him soon enough that Lady Sophia Grey had decided to ignore her dead mother’s wishes for a good marriage, however much she liked Tony Andover, heir to a  Marques, out of spite and hatred for a self-centered egotistical mother.

When he fell in love with the beautiful sister of his younger brother’s best friend, his sudden devotion to  Allington’s daughter seemed to have fogged his brain, making him unaware of the dire events that were threatening his father's sanity and the family’s welfare.

He looked around the brothel, taking in the lush hangings and the expensive furniture.

Damn, he had earned his night with an expensive whore! He was always working hard, always, spying and manipulating, plotting and dec eiving. Because he wanted it all back, all and more: the wealth, the power, the King's respect, everything.

He frowned.

His father's destruction of the Andover wealth had carved deep ruts into his mind.

Ruts that had almost extinguished all the feelings that a man could have for his wife, the one he had married for love and now despised because whatever she brought him had no value at all; her beauty did not fill his coffers and her sweetness had left her after so many ruthless rows and fights.

Ruts that had managed to extinguish the last of his tender feelings towards his mother, who had once been so beloved. Now, she was nothing more than a raving lunatic, frightening the daylight out of his little daughter.

Ruts that had already started to mar the last good feelings he still seemed to possess: his love for his younger brother who was going to leave him soon for a soldier's life on the Continent.

Dark thoughts started to swirl in his head. The years behind him had been the devil's bad luck and he

wondered if he would ever see the end of it.

Some wise woman had told him that they would never end, not for him, not as long as he saw the use of his dark powers as the only way to survive in this world.

Esmeralda the beautiful fortune-teller was the epitome of one of his perverted sins as well: he had not done one important thing without having her peering over the cards to investigate the chances of the future.  He had been perverted enough to pay her for her efforts with his body. She never wanted money, just his physical ‘love’ and now Tony dared not presume what that had made him into.

He gnashed his teeth. What if he kept going on, making the same mistakes all his life, doing the wrong things to get everything right?

He watched John Lorna with a frown. The Marques of Lorna must have been married for three years now, but there was no rumor of his wife carrying a child. Fat chance she would be, with her living in Edinburgh and him playing the cad in London!

John's mother had forced his father, the Duke of

Rothford's hand on her deathbed. John had been twelve years old at the time, the girl had been in diapers. John had never understood why his mother had wanted him to marry the girl, until he had unexpectedly found out that she was offspring from his maternal grandfather’s adventures in Scotland. His mother had wanted him to marry the chit to bring this granddaughter of her father back into the highest London Ton.

Who would serve that purpose better than the spare son who would never become an heir, with his brother  Randolph the next Duke of Rothford supposedly sowing his wild oats wherever he fancied. How mistaken the old Duchess had been… Randolph preferred the company of handsome men a lot more than that of women, although he was known not to shun indulging in a sexual act with either. He had just always avoided marriage.

It seemed now that the future of the dukedom of

Rothford was to fall into the hands of a rake, who bedded every woman he could put his hands on, except his own wife.

Tony took his handkerchief from his sleeve and blew his nose.

Damn, did they have lilies in the brothel? He always got into sneezing fits when there were lilies somewhere.

He stared at his younger brother who seemed to have fallen asleep where he was sitting.

Kit had  recently married Julia Fortescue, but Tony doubted that it was going to be a prosperous union with  Kit lounging in a brothel all night. At least with Julia's money he could afford expensive whores now, though that did not seem to make Kit any happier.

Tony scoffed.

Kit was too handsome for his own good. Standing inches taller than Tony, with his wild, wavy hair, and his deceptive brown eyes, which promised tenderness but gave none. He sported long muscled limbs and a broad chest. He only had to look a woman in the eye and she would lay herself down in front of him, lift her skirts and spread her legs in invitation.

Tony assumed that Kit was here because someone was apt to whisper of his debaucheries into the indignant ears of his shrewish wife. Tony knew how  Julia Fortescue would pinch her lips together, and then balefully tell her father not to transfer their monthly allowance to the household in Lancaster Street, but rather to keep it in a secret location so that her whoring husband would not profit from  that mercenary part of their marriage.

Vengeance would be short-lived for Julia though:

Kit had owned a big bank account since the day they had wed; he did not need to dip his hands into the household funds to pay for a whore.

The door to the parlor opened and a young ensign came tiptoeing in.

Kit awoke and looked at him through half-closed eyes.

“What are you doing here, Montague?” he asked, yawning, “Don’t tell me you're looking for me!”

The boy could be sixteen at the most, Tony mused, looking at the young ensign dressed in an expensive red uniform of his Majesty's hussars. It was rich Basil  Montague’s little half-brother.

The ensign’s eager eyes flicked to the men all sleepily splayed out in the brothel's fine leather chairs.  His gaze lingered longingly on the red, plush carpeted stairs that lead to the rooms of pleasure, above.

Kit scratched his scalp under his officer's wig. He wondered if there had been lice on the cushions of

Paulina’s feather bed, the woman who had been his choice for the night. She was in big demand these days and allowed to have a new visitor every hour, not to waste income on sleepers. No doubt one of them had transported vermin from his dirty hair onto Paulina’s pillows.

Kit hated lice and every other form of vermin. He would have to ask his batman to inspect his hair the moment he returned to his lodgings; otherwise he might be in for nights of frantic scratching and no sleep.

He threw a sour look at the young ensign. No doubt there had been another change of orders, which were going to prevent him from sleeping in Tony's apartments near Grosvenor Square. They were a wonderful luxury compared to the cold and bare

military barracks in London, where he had to share a  bunk with Barry Armonk, a lieutenant of the Fifth.

He had left his own house on Lancaster Street days  ago, with no intention of going back there after the last  humiliating row with his wife.

Kit sighed heavily. It would have been nice if his  marriage had brought him some peace and quiet in his  life. He had been haunted with worry and stress since  the day his father had decided to end his life with one  of Tony’s finest Manton pistols.

It had been devastating to see what havoc his father  had created with his last actions on this world.

Kit had watched his beloved brother change from a  charming roguish rake into a hard, determined, and  unscrupulous Lord of the Realm. He had to endure  seeing his loving mother descend into a state of near  insanity. He had watched his chances of a peaceful life  at his own viscountcy Brondemeire dwindle to nothing  when the Andover family turned out to be destitute.

“Orders have changed, sir,” David Montague said  hastily, “Lieutenant Armstrong asked me to insist that  you come back on the double. You are supposed to  bring the men to Southend  at six o’clock, he says, sir."

Kit rose unsteadily.

“Damn,” he muttered, “that leaves me little time to  sleep, doesn't it?”

He looked up the stairs, listening sharply.

“Broadhurst's still up there. You'd better warn him

as well! Second door on the right, if you please, Ensign  Montague!”

He watched the ensign race up the stairs and

grinned.

“Might be very educational for our little Montague,”  he jested.

He grabbed his tricorne hat from the couch,  straightened his uniform, took a last swig of his

brandy, and performed a short bow for the two men  who had accompanied him in the parlor.

“My pleasure, gentlemen!” he drawled. “I'm off to  war again! Hold the fort for me here!”

He was not certain if the look his brother threw him  was one of mocking or of worry. He shrugged, placing  his hat at a jaunty angle on his head.

From now on, Tony would be on his own, because  no doubt Kit Andover would be off to a real war, thank  God!

**

ANTHEA FAIRFAX’S PROLOGUE

-

Caversham, 1811

Anthea shuddered when his sausage -like  fingers slid the wedding band onto her ring finger.

The bride is about to swoon, she thought, when his fat- lipped, moist mouth lunged toward hers for the kiss that would seal her marriage.

She tried not to retch when the mustiness of his blubbering mouth  reached her nostrils. He certainly had not even bothered to bathe for his own wedding!

Distantly she watched how his few black teeth grinned at her. She thought that he should have had more teeth, even at the advanced age of fifty-five, if he had taken some care of them.

Then, she fainted, slipping quietly to the flagstones that were covering the church floor.

She came to in the rectory. She was lying on Mrs.

Mulhand's faded couch.

Mrs. Mulhand was just changing a lukewarm wet cloth for a not noticeably colder one.

“Is it true then?” Anthea asked, “Am I married to... to Guy Burroughs?”

Mrs. Mulhand showed a toothless smile.

“And a fine husband you have in him, milady. Let me call him. He was very worried when you swooned.”

Anthea shook her head.

“Where are my father and my sisters?”

Mrs. Mulhand scratched her head. Anthea watched

her dirty hand gather unspeakable things when it reappeared from under her grimy, festive, lace bonnet.

She hoped the rector’s wife did not harbor any beasties that could easily  jump over to her own hair. It was bad enough that she acquired a louse of a husband today; she did not fancy getting the itching sort of bugs as well.

“I think they went ahead!” Mrs. Mulhand answered brightly.

Anthea got up slowly from the couch. Her head  was thrumming.

“Oh,” Mrs. Mulhand cried out, “you dirtied the lace on your beautiful dress!”

Anthea shrugged. That church floor probably had not seen water and soap since Cromwell had visited there to say his prayers on his way to the North.

Mrs. Mulhand approached her with a not-so-clean handkerchief.

“Let me help you wipe that, Lady Anthea!”

Anthea waved her away.

“No, no!”

She took a tentative step back from the dirty, too

helpful woman.

“I must rejoin the party.”

Mrs. Mulhand stubbornly grabbed the  back of

Anthea’s dress. They both froze when they heard a

ripping sound.

“Please, don't bother, Mrs. Mulhand.”

She hurried outside, wondering why her sisters and

father had not waited for her.

A hulking man stood on the church path. He was dressed in his  ‘best clothes:’ a purple-tailed coat, a red and blue embroidered waistcoat over unfashionable purple breeches that must have seen the last century.

His face was fat, round and ruddy. He wore a gray wig with stiff curls. His belly was a hulking mass and his stockings were definitely grimy.

Behold my husband, Anthea thought. Oh father, how could you do this to me?

“There you are, my dear!” he leered, trying to appear jovial for the sake of Mrs. Mulhand who had followed her outside. Apart from bad teeth, she now smelled the scent of brandy on his breath, which was a vast improvement to his bodily stench.

Caversham held out a mocking arm to her.

She took it, shuddering when she thought she saw something moving into his wig, near his ear. She wondered if she was  going to faint again when she detected his oppressive body odor, the moment he moved his fat arm.

“The party has already gone ahead for the wedding  breakfast. Let's hurry, my dear.”

When they were inside his carriage, he took hold of  her sleeve. She looked down at his dirty hand and  black nails, trying not to shudder too visibly.

He moved his ruddy face close to hers, his small  pig’s eyes narrowed into slits.

“Why did you faint?” he asked harshly, “Did he get  you in the family way?”

She was too stunned to move away from him.

“N… no, of course not!” she muttered, wondering if  she would vomit on his already dirty breeches, “I told  you he did not touch me.”

His hand moved to her bodice, grasping a lace-clad  breast.

“I’d take you here and now if it wasn’t so damned  uncomfortable,” he leered. “Just you wait, missy…!”

Anthea knew that fainting again during the carriage  ride would not help her to stay out of his dirty clutches.  During the entire ride to her new home, she stared out  of a grimy carriage window, forcing herself to breathe  superficially so as not to succumb to his stench.

-

Lucy pottered silently about the bedroom that was to belong to Lady Anthea Burroughs, the second

Baroness of Caversham.

Anthea sat up straight against the headboard of the opulent oak bed. She wore a lacy shift that opened at the front.

When Lucy made a choking sound, Anthea looked at her questioningly.

“It’s the filth of the place...” Lucy breathed with an apologetic smile, “I've never seen such a dirty house in my life!”

Anthea  did not want to think about it; she refused to notice anything about her surroundings. Her new career as lady of the house, however filthy, would begin tomorrow and she knew she had her work cut out for her.

“It’s too late to see to it now, Lucy,” she warned.  “We should be glad that I had the foresight to bring my own bed sheets, although... ”

She shuddered.

That dirty man that was now officially her husband would come to her tonight and besmirch her body and her bed. She felt like vomiting again.

She gasped when the door to her bedroom slammed open.

A very drunk Lord Caversham stumbled into the room. As a prank, his friends had removed his breeches, shoes, and stockings. Part of his hairy white belly showed from under his waistcoat. A purplish fleshy pole protruded from the gray shaggy-haired nest underneath his belly and seemed to point straight at a repulsed Anthea.

This is no time to faint, Anthea thought, panicky for the twentieth time that day.

When her husband lurched toward the left side of her bed, she jumped off at the other side. He swayed towards her.

“C’mere, wife,” he slurred. “No hiding from me, I tell you!”

Anthea ran behind a big armchair, and saw Lucy escape through the connecting door to the dressing

room.

“Lucy!” she yelled, “Don’ t leave me, damn it!”

Her husband slowly approached the chair.

“I like a lady with spunk,” he mumbled. “I like...”

His florid face suddenly lost all color. He gasped,  struggled for his balance, and crashed face first into the  chair.

Anthea stood frozen behind the chair, with a hand  over her mouth trying to stop herself from screaming.

She gingerly stepped from behind the chair. Perhaps  Lord Caversham was playing a stupid prank on her.

What was that terrible smell?

When she looked down at Lord Caversham’s naked fat buttocks, she suddenly realized the cause of the stink.

She raced to the dressing room, grabbed an old, smelly chamber pot, and vomited until she assumed she did not have a drop left in her stomach.

Lucy brought her a moist kerchief to wipe her

mouth.

Anthea used it, crumpled it, and then started to laugh hysterically.

“Saved, Lucy,” she hiccupped. “I am saved! My esteemed rotten husband is as dead as a doornail!”

**

Chapter 1: MANIPULATIONS

-

London, Carlton House, 1814

When the woman dashed into the antechamber, a footman sprang in front of her.

“He is not to be disturbed,” the burly man announced, looking down on her from a great height.

“I must see him,” she hollered. “Get out of my way, you idiot!”

Two strong hands grabbed her shoulders from behind.

”I think not! Stop making a fool of yourself!”

The tall man grabbed her waist, trying to force her to turn around, away from the door that she was determined to open.

She turned to slap him, but when she came face to face with him she let her hand fall.

”Oh, it’s you…”

“Yes, it’s me,” he growled. “Let’s go!”

“Please, I must see him,” she whimpered.

He heaved a long sigh.

“Don’t be such a bloody fool! He is through with  you, and you know it. Just accept  what he's offering  you and move on, for God's sake!”

She looked at him with wary eyes.

“Who’s with him?”

He walked her out of the room, ignoring the  triumphant glares of the footmen.

“Molly Sugden.”

Her face burned.

“Not that fat cow!”

He shrugged.

“She’s all woman and no trouble, and she’s fun.

Exactly how he likes them, especially if they cannot talk politics with him. We've discussed this before.”

She smiled weakly, hauling at her sleeve that had fallen away, when he turned her around.

“I’m not a very good pupil, am I?”

He drew her against him, leering at her very low neckline.

“We’ll fix you someone else,” he murmured. “He has all those brothers who will be happy at the chance, now that you’re free.”

-

He fingered the letter thoughtfully.

So he had at last taken his advice and would be looking for another bride now?

He heard a rustle behind him and he quickly covered the letter with a book.

”I’ll ask Mowbray to hail you a hackney,” he said  without looking at the woman. “I have a few things to  do that can’t wait.”

She stamped her foot in anger.

“That’s no way to treat me, you egotistical rake!”

He turned to face her.

”What more can I offer you than the use of my  body?” he asked with a sarcastic grin.

She huffed and turned to the door.

“It’s more than you will get from him!” he hollered  after her.

He scowled and turned back to the letter. The stupid  chit had made him lose his temper, while she meant

nothing to him, nothing! The woman who could crack  his armor nowadays was yet to be born !

Somebody with hair the color of silver blond ash  and equally silver-colored eyes rose in his imagination.  All right, she was born already, but that one he could  never have, not now that he was married to a young  woman who would probably live to be a hundred.

He rose to light another candle and sat back at his  writing desk.

“We’ll have to do it right, this time,” he muttered,  raking a hand through his hair. “No mistakes with this  one!”

-

He picked up the letter, delivered to him when he came home from his box at the opera.

Ah, the vultures were coming home to roost; nothing was more enticing than a bundle of banknotes in the hands of a destitute and blackmailed man.

He grinned when he reread the missive. The desperate ones were always the easiest to handle, and this one was more than in despair. Well, this one could wait. He had handled the blackmail before and it was not going to let off until the fool started screwing his wife instead of boys.

He rested his elegant hand under his chin, thinking about hi s most profitable endeavor.

It was a pity about Smythe; he hated to share a commission with anybody. It had been his idea from the start, anyway. Smythe just fell into a feathered bed.  Her annulment had been discussed in the House, and he would be able to cash into that at once. On the other hand, he feared that he could not cancel the actual

auction without Smythe's interference. If Brondemeire  got suspicious and did something stupid or rash, they  would have a hell of a problem. Brondemeire was not  to know he had gotten a wife freshly saved from the  auction block because his brother wanted him badly to  marry this one. There was too much money involved.  He could not make another mistake like the contract

over the damn Fortescue chit.

He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes.

He knew he had to live with some of the choices he'd made in his life; although it was better if they were left far away in the recesses of his mind.

Bloody Julia Fortescue was one of them.

He studied his hands. Was he still imagining there was blood on them?

Damn nonsense! He had been looking at his hands strangely since he'd seen this Macbeth performance in the Aldridge Theatre. He shook his head in disgust.  Whatever he had done, it did not serve him at all to look back.

After Kit left for the Continent, he had sought out his half-cit wife.

The girl had been suspicious of him at first, but his elegant and easy ways had swayed her into ridiculous adoration. She certainly was a title-hunter, just like her merchant father and her homely mother.

It had needed a lot of patience to seduce her into submission. At least, afterward she had been like wax in his hands. Brondemeire just did not understand how to handle her. He was too much of a gentleman, no doubt, to hit his wife, but that was what she had been asking for.

He grinned sardonically. The new one would probably hit him back if he tried that tack with her. If he had ever known a no-nonsense amazon, it was  Anthea Fairfax. She would no doubt teach her new husband a lesson or two, but at least she would not shun a good swive, which was all that mattered in Kit’s

case.

**

Chapter 2: A LUCKY STROKE FOR THE

VISCOUNT

-

St. Jean de Luz, France, March 1814

Kit wondered if he could move his little finger without perishing on the spot. He breathed superficially through his nose, trying to clamp down the sick feeling in his stomach.

Good Christ, yesterday's party had beaten anything they had ever done before!

It had all started quite innocently. John Jenkins had brought him a caller while he was in his tent working at the hated military administration. He heard the man's deep rumble and his heart skipped with joy.

“Hengist!” he had shouted, scooting from his chair,  “Hengist Agnew!”

Hengist Agnew had been a major in Portugal when  Kit had begun his duty as a young lieutenant in the  Peninsula. The big Scotsman was by then fed up with the war, and with the aid of a luscious mistress, he was able to wrestle a leave out of Wellesley.

Hengist went to London not knowing that his brother Viscount Morvern had married on the day of his arrival. His brother's new bride was Marguerite  Ross, widow of William Alexander, one of England's richest ship owners.

The lady had not suspected that Lord Philip Morvern had no inclination to ever bed his new bride, as Lord  Morvern’s sexual appetites leaned toward the burlier specimens of his own sex.

Hengist, recognizing the new Lady Morvern as his childhood sweetheart from Edinburgh from his days as an ensign, had taken matters, including the Lady, into his own hands.

Marguerite’s aristocratic husband had died a premature death in a London prison after having been suspected of committing sodomy with a footman. The scandal had rocked Albi on from its white cliffs of

Dover to the Hebrides in the North and Marguerite’s best option after having birthed a son in Portugal was to marry the brother of her former husband. It was everybody’s guess that in reality Hengist had fathered  Marguerite’s firstborn son.

Hengist and Marguerite decided to outlive the scandal in Portugal. After growing bored with the defense of Portugal, when all the war action moved into Spain, Hengist eventually changed his battledress for the rich garb of a ship-owner.

He still served the army however, organizing timely arrivals of shiploads of food, arms and soldiers.

For days the food situation had been dire in St. Jean de Luz. The army had gathered at the Basque port without victuals of note, but now Hengist had arrived with three of his ships, bringing dried meat, honey, tea, coffee, and the nasty stuff the French called Pinot, which Hengist had taken on board at the isle called Ile d'Oleron.

Hengist had joined the evening's festivities with crates of bottles of Pinot.  A sumptuous dinner and a feast of liquor had ensued. Even Wellington had joined them for the party and had taken his fair share and taste of the heady drink.

Kit hardly remembered when the women had started to come in. They were eager for a taste of the French cognac -wine and an extra coin on the side. The last thing he remembered was an experienced hand fumbling its way into his breeches, but he was unable to recall if he had followed up on the woman’s sexual admonishments.

Now, even when his head was throbbing like a drum, he fervently hoped he had not succumbed to the woman’s urgings. He surely had been too drunk to take out his French letter, his only protection against a dose of the clap or the pox.

He cursed inwardly.

The flap of his tent opened, letting in a sharp shaft of light that made Kit wince. A tall shadow bent over him.

“Ah,” Hengist laughed, “they don’t make them in

the army like they used to. Here, I brought you coffee.”

He put a tin cup on Kit's writing desk. He sat down

in Kit’s folding chair, which creaked in loud protest,

when it caught Hengist’s full weight.

Kit squeezed his eyes shut before he attempted to

rise.

“Good Christ, Hengist,” he muttered, “it's just as

well old Boney didn't know he could easily beat us

with that stuff you poured us. We'd all be in shackles

right now and prisoners of the French Empire.”

Hengist’s laugh rumbled again. He blew

ostentatiously on his own tin of coffee.

“I came to check on you. I want to leave on this

afternoon’s tide. Cherie sends you her love and I’m in

a hurry to get back to her to get my own.”

Kit nodded prudently, picking up his coffee. Hengist had been fortunate to snatch the wealthy widow after his brother’s own organized suicide.

“How is she?” he rasped.

Hengist leaned back comfortably.

“We had another boy last year.”

He frowned.

“I swore this would be our last one. She has not been  very well with this little mite. Three boys are more

than enough, I would say. But there’s another bun in  her lovely oven.”

Kit smiled thinly.

“Four sounds more than enough to me. I wonder

how you are coping.”

Hengist's amused bark made Kit wince.

“I would not trade my life with yours!” Hengist  announced, “Gads, Kit, that woman who was all over  you last night was filthy and stank to high heaven,  didn't you  notice? It took me all my strength to pull her  off you and get you back into your tent! I thought you  had better taste than the likes of her.”

“Oh, crikes, Hengist, mind your own business, will  you?” Kit said, a bit miffed.

He frowned.

“So that’s how I came back home. Did you like  spoiling my chance of a free lay?”

He reached for the coffee, which was still tasty and  hot.

Hengist just shrugged. He knew better than to expect  Kit's gratitude while he was still under the effects of a giant hangover. People  with hangovers never made delightful companions.

“How old are you now, Kit, thirty-five, thirty- six?”

Kit grimaced.

“Thirty-four and still kicking, my friend! That stuff  you brought must have aged me in a day's time if you  think me older.”

Hengist crossed a muscled leg over his bare knee.

He was wearing the short battle kilt he usually favored.  As a true Scotsman, he did not mind wearing a kilt, but  he hated the longer, restrictive ones.

“I married Cherie when I was almost thirty,” he  grumbled. “Frankly, I was so bored with the army at  the time that I was glad to be able to escape to London  where I found her.”

Kit shrugged with apathy.

“I was married once and I don’t think the experience  needs to be repeated.”

Hengist shook his head.

“You obviously married the wrong woman, Kit, God  rest her soul. She pretended delicacy where she had  none and she held her daddy’s purse over your head  with every supposed wrong move you made. She was  no doubt too self-centered to think of your welfare.  Take my advice and find yourself a good woman with  deep pockets. Bed her every day for a year and you’ll  fill your nursery with your offspring in no time; and  then we'll talk again. You’re getting too old for cheap  whores and dirty hangers-on. If you go on like this the  pox will find you one day and it would be a good life  wasted.”

“How do you know I’m not already riddled with the  Black Lion?” Kit asked Hengist angrily.

Hengist leaned back in his chair again.

“I know, because I checked, my friend, last night. I  had to get you back into your breeches before I carried  you here.”

“You carried me here?” Kit asked with awe.

At six foot seven, he was hardly a small man.

Hengist grinned again.

“I dragged you at some stage! You’re bloody heavy,  Kit! But I got you in here, that’s most  important of all,  don’t you think?”

Kit gingerly touched his head where it hurt most. He  wondered if he had hit his head when Hengist was  dragging him around. That would account for the  pounding headache he still nurtured.

-

When Kit limped into Bernard’s small office without announcement, the secretary cast him an annoyed scowl. He prided himself at being a real dignitary of the Crown of England and did not appreciate the roguish ways of His Majesty’s officers, with or without noble titles.

Kit could not care less about the not-so-honorable  Bernard Johnson. The man had borrowed his deceased cousin’s name to add to his own importance in a futile effort to draw respect from his peers. Not that it had helped him. Bernard was a wily, big-nosed man who would do anything for some extra coin and by now everybody knew it.

Kit’s eyes narrowed slightly when he remembered  Bernard’s perverse sexual tastes. Kit had seen him grunting and groaning in a dark spot during a wayside hanging, hiding his obvious fumbling under his greatcoat. Regrettably, hangings had occurred in vast

numbers in the last weeks of the campaign in France.  Wellington had no patience for looters and robbers and  hangings had become an almost everyday event. Poor  consolation that Bernard Smythe Johnson was one of  the few to enjoy them to the full for his own perverted  gratifications.

“So you’ve found me a bride at last?” Kit asked,  falling down in one of the two sturdy horsehair chairs,  which were cramping the already overcrowded small  study.

Bernard nodded slowly.

“As a matter of fact one came up very recently. It  was not easy, you know, taking your circumstances in  consideration. If it had not been for the Marques…”

Kit interrupted him impatiently.

“What did you come up with?”

Smythe showed his teeth in a crooked grin at Kit’s  impatience.

“Rich little girl, an Earl’s daughter. I think it will be  a perfect match.”

“Anyone I know?” Kit inquired, studying his nails.

“I wouldn't think so, unless you were ever in the  North. She is from Yorkshire, actually, never had a

come-out, totally bluestocking, I would say. His

lordship, her father, died a year ago, leaving her a

convenient amount of money. His heir, the new Earl,

did not get a penny of his personal fortune. You had

better be quick about this one. The fortune-hunters

don’t yet realize she's on the market.”

Kit nibbled his thumb pensively.

“Fortune-hunters, you say? Are you going to tell me

her name?”

“Lady Anthea Fairfax, daughter of the Earl of  Rotherham, Cyril Fairfax.”

“Cyril Fairfax died recently?”

Bernard looked at Kit with badly hidden surprise.

“You knew Fairfax?”

Kit tapped his hand on Bernard’s desk with mild  irritation.

“Of course I knew Fairfax. Everybody knows about  Fairfax. He was a genius privateer and later on part of  Nelson’s fleet. He must have left the Navy seven years  ago, after Denmark. He was married to a French

wench, one of the early French fugitives. She tried to  flee to the Americas; Cyril’s ship intercepted her. A  French countess, they say. She came to England  without a penny to her name. They say he married her  for looks and love: sort of a love at first sight, whatever  that may be. They say he was a damned lucky bastard.”

Bernard Smythe peered sarcastically at Kit.

”What’s the matter, Brondemeire? Turning into a  romantic, are ye?"

Kit clenched his jaws.

“No, of course not,” he spat, not interested in  keeping his sudden foul mood hidden.

Bloody hell! He would have some frightful  bluestocking forced upon him and they expected him

to like it?

He considered whether he should offer Bernard

more information about himself. He decided it might  smoothen this important case. It was obvious Tony had  brought in the Slime because he needed him. Kit knew  very well Tony was astute enough to solve his own

problems without the use of the likes of Bernard

Johnson if he did not need a mediator. Whatever he could tell the creep was already common enough knowledge amongst his friends and enemies.

“My first wife, Julia Fortescue, was approved of by my aunt Leticia, Lady Grange. She was Debutante of the Year. Dad was wealthy and Mum was the poverty-stricken daughter of a baron. My dear wife was not smart enough to survive the London climate: she succumbed to pneumonia after wearing all those stupid flimsy dresses in winter. I married her seven years ago when I was in England before Koge. I was home for too short a time to implant something of worth in her.  She died within eight months of our marriage. I have followed Wellesley to the Peninsula and have been away for  three years in a row now...”

He suddenly realized that he was actually babbling in front of the hateful Smythe!

“So Lady Anthea Fairfax it will be?”

He tried to cover his ramblings hastily.

“Who do I need to ask for her hand?”

Bernard shuffled through a few papers.

“Gilles Blackwood, he’s the new Earl of Rotherham and the new head of the family. Mind that he is inheriting the title, but not the money, only the earldom. He’s her cousin. Mrs. Blackwood was Cyril  Fairfax’ sister.  The new Earl will be in need of a

percentage of the girl’s money, given the

circumstances, and I suppose your credentials are the

best, being the Andover heir and all that.”

Kit nodded with pursed lips. When his aunt had

arranged the marriage with Julia Fortescue trivial

things like money were not mentioned, even if he

needed it as badly then as he needed it now. His aunt  had shaken her head over Julia’s father, who was  nothing but a very rich London merchant, marrying his  daughter up in society to become part of the Ton.

Fortunately, for them, Julia had been a triumph for  her parents, a fragile blond beauty who took the lower  Ton by storm. Kit had been charmed and delighted that  she chose him, until the wedding night, of course.

“Tell me, Smythe," he said  slowly, “how come the  little lady is suddenly on the market? As you remarked,  her mother died years ago, she must have been out of  mourning for ages. Do I smell a rat here? Even if Cyril  only died recently, she still must have been a great  catch for her dowry alone.”

Bernard blushed profusely.

“I remember the whispering of a tiny scandal,” he  muttered. “She was married off to one of the barons in  Yorkshire, a man notably more than twice her age.”

His face turned fully red when he said: “It seems

that she was widowed on her wedding night. Nothing

to be concerned about, though. I understand she got her  dowry back, all in good order and all that.”

Bernard suppressed a scowl. It was no use telling the  Major about the annulment and the scandal. If  Brondemeire's brother, Anthony, Marques of Andover,  had not objected to the chit, who was he to do the  telling? He would have married the chit himself if he  had been in the possession of a title. Her cousin, the  new Earl of Rotherham, had insisted on a title, and  Christopher Andover, Viscount Brondemeire, super

war-hero and heir to the Marques of Andover had

barely been good enough for the ambitious Earl. On

the other hand, not many high titles in the London Ton  would touch Anthea Fairfax with a ten-foot pole, let  alone with a wedding ring. Everybody suspected  scandal behind the waves she obviously had created  herself.

Therefore, the penniless Viscount would think  himself fortunate in a way.

Smythe was convinced that Brondemeire would be  aware of his good fortune. If Anthea Fairfax had been  an 18 -year-old virgin, without a blemish, she would  have easily caught herself a royal duke, given her  money and her father's title. He could not be so  ignorant to think there was nothing wrong with a girl  like that. Impossible!

Kit nodded, deep in thought. If any of this ‘bride- digging’ was his brothers doing (and frankly, it bore

his stamp all over it), everything would turn out to be  fine. Tony always knew what he was doing, at least for  the last eight years after their father had c ocked up his  unworthy toes.

Kit got to his feet. He was a very tall man. Without  his officers’ wig, his dark blond hair fell to his  shoulders. His deep brown eyes were pensive.

Bernard scowled. Some damn people had all the  luck. Kit was a handsome man at the age of thirty-four.  He now possessed the ruggedness that made his face  less angelic. Every woman following the drum seemed  to be ready to fall uninvited into his bed and he knew it  well. Now he stood on the brink of having a well- needed fortune deposited into his lap by marrying a  Yorkshire bluestocking, all handed him on a platter by  his powerful brother. Although he was the brother of

the Marques of Andover and Viscount of Brondemeire  in his own right, his only hope of money would be to  marry an heiress. Marrying for money was frowned  upon in some circles, but Kit Brondemeire certainly  seemed not to be balking at the idea of acquiring  blemished gold.

“She has two sisters, you know, equally rich. One is  said to have been betrothed to a captain who died in  Portugal, but she is entirely unattached now.”

Kit shook his head.

“I may as well go for the oldest one. I don’t want to  lose this chance if they will not allow the younger ones  to marry first. On second thought, how old is she?”

Bernard suppressed a smile.

“Twenty-six would be my guess. Bit long in the  teeth, don’t you think?”

Kit shrugged. What did he care? Twenty- six to his  thirty-four seemed fine to him. He'd hate to marry  another simpering deb that might turn into a shrewish  witch after their wedding-night. The idea of having to  bed another Julia Fortescue made his skin crawl.

Bernard shuffled through some papers.

“Right, we’ll arrange a proxy. I will write the  proposal and you will only come back to sign. Piece of  cake, Major.”

Kit’s face split into a smile at last.

“I knew I could count on you, Bernard. Do tell me  the date of the proxy; I'd dearly like to know when I  can change my recent widower’s status for the married  one again.”

Bernard looked up in consternation.

“You are not planning the proxy here on the same  day, then?”

“Oh, good Christ!” Kit growled impatiently, “For  God’s sake, who is to know? I am to follow Wellington  any day, now that I have recovered from my wounds.  I’ll come back tomorrow and sign your bloody papers  here. You find some witnesses; I don’t care who. Fill

in the date that Blackwood will propose afterward, and  no one will be the wiser. I will not go for any other  agreements but the normal nuptial ones. I am a  Viscount, for heaven’s sake, and who knows, perhaps,  Marques of Andover one day, that is if my brother does  not stop fathering mere girls. Send me your bill as soon  as the lady is signed, sealed and delivered!”

Bernard reddened with anger. It was quite rude of  Brondemeire to treat his new  bride as a parcel to be  delivered to him. His remark that Bernard would get a  fee, no, a recompense, for his troubles was uncalled

for.

Kit gave him a mocking smile He guessed what  Bernard was thinking. Oh, he was grateful for the  trouble Bernard must have gone through to unearth this  new bride for him and of course, it would earn Bernard  his fee. He had known of Bernard’s lucrative side steps  for years now; Bernard was as bloody mercenary as  they came.

He had no doubt that it was also Tony’s incessant

prodding on the subject of his little brother marrying  another rich girl.

What worried him was that Tony had obviously lost  faith in his ability to sire sons. The idea saddened Kit.  He had always liked Pamela, his best friend Devon

Broadhurst’s little sister, and if it would be Kit’s turn now to supply the Andover family tree with heirs, he could count on it that Tony had given up on his marriage with Pamela.

Kit sighed. The family’s finances were obviously still in a crisis. An heiress was a must if the Andover

family tree was not to sink further into the quagmires  of poverty. They descended from stray Tudors and  even a Lancaster duke; two, if one looked deep enough  into the family history.

Noblesse Oblige, Kit mused. A pity his father had  not felt that way.

Kit smiled sardonically. He had been an idealist for  a long time, but the war had turned his stomach and his  heart once too often. He only wanted to go home and  get a life. If that meant he had to marry a bluestocking  heiress he would not be the one to object or complain.

As long as she was not like the late Lady  Brondemeire! He would have liked to insist on a bride  that would not screech at his touch.

However, appallingly, aristocratic brides could only  be tested on the wedding night. By then, God only knew, it would be too late to go back on the wedding

vows.

He had no scruples left when it came to bedding a woman. With an army on the way or a battle approaching, you took whatever was offered and closed your eyes if the woman underneath lacked some teeth, was inordinately ugly or halfway bald. Kit had learned early in his fighting years that the beautiful ones always had pretenses, were arrogant, demanding, and very rarely good bed partners.

There was to be bedding, he mused. Tony wanted him to sire a  son, which would only be proper and right, but when? Although the army had entered  France, there was no telling how long it would take to defeat Napoleon.

He could hardly defect from the army to marry.

He thought, without one backward glance, of the swath of women he had bedded from Portugal to Spain and here in France. After seven years of anonymous women, he must now hope to become accustomed to his new bride-to-be and more importantly she would have to comply with him. There would be no Julia  Fortescue in his bed anymore!

He had often told his friends that he considered fucking a woman akin to the inner workings of a mechanical device; it was all about rubbing and ensuring excitement. His friends had laughed and called him a cynic.

“Will ten in the morning suit you, Smythe?”

At Bernard’s sour nod, he grinned victoriously.

“Right, ten it will be,” he declared.

-

Kit walked to the hall of the small townhouse. When he left his Majesty’s ‘Embassy’ at the market place of

St. Jean de Luz he tried to c onceal his joy.

Coming into money again would solve a few nasty problems and allow him new freedom. He could buy the gold necklace Juanita had been hankering at; offered to her by a plunderer, and which had probably come from the treasures of Burgos, treasures they had conveniently come upon when the town fell. It would be a good fare -thee-well present for his Spanish

mistress, who was actually boring him to distraction.  The girl was always nagging him about taking her back  to England with him. Fat chance! He knew that Tony  and his bride-to-be would not be amused if he took a  blanket-girl home. One could wonder if she really was  a Spanish girl. Peninsular women were always kept  under lock and key until they married. Although most  of the whores in St. Jean de Luz were French, some  Spanish ‘ladies’ had followed the army to find their  luck with the officers. Some of them had been able to  snatch an officer. Kit's good friend Harry Smith of the  95th. had married an innocent beauty, who had almost  been raped by the French in Badajoz. Harry was  deliriously happy with her, but then Harry was a bit of  a nut without a title and the girl had brought him a nice  dowry.

Only the lowest-class Spanish women were camp  followers, earning their money as laundresses and  working  a bit on the side if a soldier took a fancy to  them.

It had been Wellington’s worry that many of the  soldiers had started a family with the Spanish women.  There was no saying how such a thing would work out  when the war was over! Kit was now certain he would  not follow their example. He would have a bride to go  back home to, even if she might be a little smudged by  circumstances.

He grinned; smudges, scandals, dirty old husbands… It would all be compensated by buckets of money! She would not be the only one he had bedded in the dark for those reasons.

**

Chapter 3: A DRINK WITH FRIENDS

-

In the hastily acquired officers’ mess, Devon