The Wager

“You are a little spitfire, are you not?” he said with a laugh.

He captured her hands again and started to pull at the material of her skirts and petticoats. He had expected cooperation, but the girl was very good, determined to make it exciting for him.

Her gown was like a maze. He would work his hand under one length of material only to find another blocking his path. But at last his fingers touched the smooth skin of her thigh, warm and yielding. He rubbed the inside of her leg delicately, trailing his palm over the silky skin, pushing aside confining undergarments here, as well. He nuzzled her exposed bosom, taking the tender mounds into his mouth.

By now he had raised all her skirts and petticoats out of the way. He was excited to feel the smooth, cool length of her bare legs against his own. He pushed his thigh between hers and began to rock gently.

At any moment she would begin to relax and respond. She would move beneath him, shifting to accommodate him. They would push against each other, the heat building between them, until they melted into one another.

With his lips against her ivory skin, he moaned softly, lost in the smell and feel of her. He expected to hear a soft murmur from her in response.

But she did not give voice to her passion. The form beneath him did not relax, did not move to accommodate him. She remained cold and stiff. She might have been petrified. And then he noticed a hitch in the rise and fall of her chest against his mouth.

He freed his hand from the intricacies of her undergarments and raised himself to look into her face.

Tears were streaming from under her clenched eyelids, wetting the hair at her temples and the pillow under her head. Her lips moved, and in the sudden stillness in the room he heard her murmur, “Please, no. Oh, dear Lord, please do not let him do this to me. Please, no.”

He released her hands and rolled off of her, sitting up on the edge of the bed. He glanced behind him and pushed his fingers through the wild tangle of his hair.

What did she mean by this? What was happening? This was not what Carstairs had promised him.

Desmond took a breath and told himself to think. His breathing became deeper and slower, as the fire in his loins cooled. What exactly had Carstairs promised him? The man had offered him his “ward.” His ward? Was it possible…?

“Marianne?” he said at last, very softly.

The girl did not open her eyes, but her lips stopped moving.

“How old are you, Marianne?” he asked.

There was a long pause, during which the girl hiccupped and Desmond gently smoothed away the tears on one of her cheeks with his thumb.

“Sixteen,” she whispered.

Sixteen? Was she as young as that? He studied her unlined face.

There was no question. He had been a blind fool.

“And you…you have nevei done this before, have you?”

She shook her head.

Desmond withdrew his hand from her face, almost expecting to see her cheek stained by his touch. He was suddenly filled with a great revulsion. A revulsion for Carstairs, who had delivered the young woman to him, fully aware of her probable fate. The wager had been offered and accepted with a mutual understanding as to what they were playing for.

But he also felt revulsion for himself. Carstairs was a pig, but what was he?

It was very silent for two or three minutes. The girl’s tears had ceased, though her sobs occasionally shook the mattress.

Desmond appeared to be completely lost in thought, totally unaware of the girl, but in fact he was consumed by thoughts of her, considering what her life must have been like, wondering what had brought her to this place tonight and where the path on which Carstairs had planted her would eventually lead her. If this was her first time, Carstairs must not have tried this ploy before. But since his wager had been accepted once, it would be again. Probably often. Until she was no longer worth the bet. Even though Desmond would not touch the girl again, if he sent her back he would be delivering her straight into a life of prostitution, into the the jaws of hell. He would be no better than Carstairs.

He grimaced. He was no better than Carstairs now, for he had brought her here expecting to collect his “winnings.”

“Mr. Desmond?” the girl whispered.

Desmond started in surprise and turned to look at her.

Her eyes were open, red rimmed and swollen, focused on him with an expression Desmond would have thought only executioners saw in the eyes of the condemned.

“Are you finished?” she asked.

“What?”

“Is it over? Can I go back to my room?”

“Yes. Go. Go,” he said hoarsely, turning his face so he would not have to watch her struggle from the bed.

She rolled to her side and swung her legs toward the edge. She had to work her way across the wide mattress before she could reach the floor, but at last she stood. Aware of the man on the bed behind her but not daring to look in his direction, she pushed her skirts down self-consciously and fumbled to refasten the bodice of her dress.

With slumped shoulders and heavy tread, she walked to the door and struggled to release the lock. He could not help raising his eyes to watch her when a relieved sigh signaled that she had finally succeeded. He saw her pull open the door of his room. Before stepping out into the hallway, she pushed the hair back from her face, squared her shoulders and raised her chin.

He was touched by her bravery and determination. But before his door shut her completely from view, he saw the line of her shoulders slump again as if with a terrible weight.

Desmond felt crushed with remorse. There was no question about the physical damage he had almost done to her, but what spiritual blow had he actually delivered?

He could not keep her here at Kingsbrook, subjecting himself to the accusations of her presence. But neither could he send her back to her former home.

He had played for a ward and he had won a ward, but now that he had her, what was he to do with her?

Chapter Three

To Marianne, her short lifetime seemed to be a succession of frightful nights. Endless nights spent waiting for Uncle Horace to return to the town house, fearfully wondering what abuse and indignity she would be required to endure this time. That ghastly night she had spent at her mother’s bedside, watching her become weaker and weaker, unable to do anything to overturn the awful verdict, to bar entrance to the merciless reaper.

But not even the memory of that night seemed as horrible as this night in Kingsbrook.

Marianne undressed slowly, careful to keep her eyes turned from the mirror, fearful of the physical evidence she would see of what had happened.

She pulled the green gown off her shoulders and dropped it to the floor at her feet. It lay in a crumpled heap, and automatically she picked it up and hung it in her closet, though she knew she could never bear to wear it again.

She removed her underthings, then poured some of the lukewarm water from her pitcher into the basin. She washed slowly, carefully, but not with any obsessive effort to cleanse herself. A tear rolled down her cheek as she told herself that was impossible now.

Her muscles were sore, owing to her struggle with the larger, stronger man. Her head ached and her breasts were tender. She did not feel a deeper, more intimate pain, but she was too distracted and too ignorant to wonder at that. Besides, more painful to her than any physical injury was her burning shame.

She pulled a long flannel nightgown from the drawer where Alice had put it earlier that afternoon. She slipped it over her head and then crawled between the sheets of her bed. She pulled the blankets up around her neck as if chilled by the cold of winter, though it was so far an unseasonably warm summer. The cold she felt was deeper and darker than any she had known before.

Marianne did not want to think about what had happened, but self-accusations swirled around in her head like feathers caught in a hurricane. What had she done to provoke such an assault? Nothing consciously or intentionally, that she could recall, but she had been so fascinated by him. She had been flattered by his attention, eager for his approval. Her admiring gaze had no doubt seemed provocative. She had probably leaned too far toward him as he spoke to her, or perhaps her eyes or the movement of her lips or hands could have been interpreted as an invitation.

She moaned softly and turned onto her side.

Her anguish was compounded because she was so lonely. There was no one here, no one in her life to whom she could turn for help and comfort. No one to advise her or give her any explanations. Marianne had to reach her own conclusions about everything, and she was a very young girl with a very limited field of reference.

All night long she tossed and turned, her brief snatches of sleep filled with dreams of strange longings, from which she awoke drenched in sweat and even further shamed.

But at long last the sun rose and began to climb higher in the sky. Wide-awake and uncomfortably warm, Marianne still lay abed, the blankets clutched to her chin.

When she had crawled into this bed last night, she had wished with all the strength of her being that she could die. But she had not died, and as she turned fretfully, restlessly, she realized she did not really want to spend the rest of her life in this bed.

True, when she rose she would have to leave this room again. She would have to walk down the stairs, speak to Alice and Mrs. River. He would be there.

The thought made her stomach churn, and she tried to imagine what she would say or do the next time she saw him.

She could not escape him, though, lying in this bed. If he was there, he was there. In fact, if he so desired, he could force open her door and drag her out, just as her uncle Horace had. She could do nothing to prevent that, as she had been unable to fight Desmond off last night. Somehow she would have to deal with the terrible uncertainties in her life and get on with it.

Her lips firmed as they had last night just before she left his room. She pushed the blankets back and swung her legs from the bed.

“Mrs. River!”

“Miss Trenton?”

They had surprised each other in the dining room. Marianne was relieved to find the room deserted when she arrived there and was doing her best not to alert anyone in the house as to her presence. She was gratified to find a few breakfast things still on the sideboard. The congealed eggs and cold oatmeal did not tempt her, but she found a few fresh strawberries and two muffins, which she was hungrily munching when Mrs. River entered the room through the kitchen door.

The housekeeper took a moment to collect herself. She was very confused by the situation here at Kingsbrook. She had known the young master and his family too long for her to be taken in by Mr. Desmond’s very thin story of bringing his “ward” to stay at Kingsbrook for a while. In the rooms directly adjacent to his own.

In fact, she had known Mr. Desmond since he was “Mister Peter” and came to visit his grandfather occasionally. He had been a pleasant enough child, but it was her understanding that he had acquired certain unfortunate habits while away at school. It was known in the servants’ quarters—and what was known in the servants’ quarters was invariably true, though no one could say precisely from whence the knowledge had come—that the boy was a great disappointment to his parents and had been virtually abandoned by them as a hopeless cause.

But Mrs. River knew her place, and Mr. Desmond was welcome to indulge himself and his base appetites without asking leave of his housekeeper or even hearing her opinion on the subject. Mrs. River firmly believed that she could distance herself enough from the gentleman’s private life that his crotchets need not come to her attention at all, as long as he kept such goings-on in London or across the Channel. But to bring a loose woman into this fine old house, to bed and board her behind these walls, deeply offended the Kingsbrook housekeeper.

Then Alice had reported this morning, in breathless undertones, that Mr. Desmond had slept alone in his bed, as had Miss Trenton in hers. Alice had added that Miss Trenton really did seem a perfect lady, whatever her profession might be, if Mrs. Rawlins and Tilly caught her meaning.

Mrs. River was disapproving of such tittle-tattle, naturally, and dismissed Alice’s opinion as the silly romanticism of a child. Now, though, as she stood facing the young woman in question, she could not help but admit that the adventuress of last night and this sweet young thing with crumbs on her fingers and a tiny smear of strawberry on her chin might not have been the same person.

This morning Miss Trenton was dressed in a light smock with a homey pinafore over it. Her hair was mussed and her eyes looked tired and red. Mrs. River felt her moral outrage being replaced by motherly compassion. Had she been wrong?

It was a new idea for Mrs. River.

She had been the unquestioned authority on every subject here in Kingsbrook for so long that she had almost forgotten the concept of “being wrong.”

“Excuse me. I found these things still out. I know it is terribly late and I certainly was not expecting breakfast, but I thought, since they were here…Oh, I—I hope they were not being reserved for someone!” Marianne stammered, as guiltily as if Mrs. River had surprised her stashing the house silverware in her undergarments.

“It is quite all right, Miss Trenton. You are welcome to anything on the sideboard, or Jenny will prepare something fresh for you if you would like.”

“Oh, no,” Marianne gasped, apparently appalled by the suggestion that something be prepared especially for her. “This is fine. The strawberries are very good, and if I can just take this second muffin up to my room, I will get out of your way.”

The girl fumbled with the muffin, attempting to wrap it in a napkin, reducing it to little more than a mass of crumbs.

“Here now,” Mrs. River said. Marianne looked up in astonishment, for the woman’s voice sounded kind and helpful.

Tears sprang to the girl’s eyes. She understood the housekeeper’s coolness of yesterday, knowing now the reason Mr. Desmond had brought her here. They all thought she was a tart. And perhaps she was, she thought miserably.

She had been unhappy staying with Uncle Horace, always lonely, sometimes even mistreated, but she had never been as frightened and confused as she was here now. Never since her mother’s death had she needed a comforting arm more.

“Oh, my dear,” Mrs. River cooed, the last barrier of disapproval melted by the tears in the girl’s eyes. The housekeeper stepped forward and put her arm around Marianne’s shoulders, and the young woman collapsed against her bosom.

Dismissing Marianne’s mature gown of last night, the impression she had given of flirting with Mr. Desmond, Mrs. River concluded she had made a deplorable mistake, that the young woman was here as the ward of her master, doubtless suffering from the recent loss of one or both of her parents. The tears were easily explained, and Mrs. River had only to gently pat the girl’s back as she wept. “Hush, now,” she said softly after several minutes.

Marianne, who had imagined her grief to be depthless, was surprised to find herself running out of tears. She sniffled, and Mrs. River withdrew her handkerchief from her waist and offered it to her. Like a dutiful child, Marianne blew into it heartily and felt herself even further recovered.

“Better?” Mrs. River asked.

Marianne nodded, hiccupping pitifully. “A little,” she said. “I am sorry….”

“Tut tut, child. I understand completely.”

Marianne looked into the woman’s face and was relieved to see she did not understand at all. Whatever trouble Mrs. River was imagining, it was not Marianne’s seduction and fall from innocence.

“Now you go on up to your room and wash your face and brush your hair. It is almost noon, and by the time you come down again Jenny will have a nice bowl of soup ready for you.”

The soup was delicious. Eaten in the privacy of a little nook in the kitchen, it was the most delicious meal Marianne could remember having in this place. Mrs. River was in and out of the kitchen several times, seeing to household affairs, entering again just in time to see Marianne mop up the last drop with her slice of bread.

“There now,” the housekeeper said, wiping her hands on her apron as if she had finished some taxing chore. “Mr. Desmond—”

Marianne jerked her head up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she looked around wildly. “Where? Where is Mr. Desmond?” she cried.

“Not here. Not here,” Mrs. River said soothingly. Goodness, the girl was as skittish as a thoroughbred colt. “I was only going to say Mr. Desmond left early this morning. He said he would be away for a few days and that you are to enjoy free access to the house and the park while he is away, so I merely wondered what you would like to do now?” The housekeeper smiled, and Marianne smiled back, though hers was a little weak and trembling.

“I do not know,” she said, genuinely at a loss.

“Well, you cannot stay tucked away in your room until the master returns,” Mrs. River chided.

But Mrs. River’s suggestion sounded very attractive to Marianne. She hurried back to her room and spent most of the day there, and the first half of the next. But by then she was growing bored and restless, indeed, and had quite caught up on her sleep.

“So you have come down at last?” Mrs. River said in greeting the next afternoon.

Marianne flushed slightly. “What are you going to do today, Mrs. River?” she inquired timidly.

“Why, I am going to shell peas for Mrs. Rawlins and set Alice to polishing the glassware,” the housekeeper replied.

“May I help?” Marianne offered.

So Mrs. River and she shelled peas, and then Marianne and Alice polished crystal under the housekeeper’s watchful gaze. Marianne took supper that night in the servants’ quarters and for the first time felt quite comfortable, almost jolly here at Kingsbrook.

By the next day she was ready to explore the estate. “Might I go about on the grounds?” she asked Mrs. River.

The woman smiled. “Indeed you may, child. A breath of fresh air will do you a world of good.”

Mrs. River pulled a loosely woven shawl from a hook and gently pushed Marianne toward the open doorway. She pointed out the walkway and suggested a route that would take her past the most charming sights of the Kingsbrook estate.

Marianne carefully put her foot outside the door, as if she was testing the frigid waters of some mountain spring before plunging in. She took another step. As soon as she was across the threshold, Mrs. River, with a soft chuckle, shut the door behind her.

At first Marianne wandered at random. After an excursion or two across meadows and flower beds left her with a muddied hem and a torn seam, she found that following the flagstone walkway was definitely the path of least resistance. And Mrs. River had been correct: whoever had plotted the route had done so with an eye to displaying all of the charms of the lovely estate.

The dense woods appeared to be clogged with a riot of ferns, mosses and ivy. The meadows were bejeweled with dahlias and delphiniums, and wild orchids and red campion were placed to achieve exactly the right balance and effect.

The pathway took Marianne across an arched wooden bridge over the bubbling brook. She saw another deer and wondered if the animals were treated as pets on Mr. Desmond’s lands. She did not have a lump of sugar with her, but was quite certain the delicate doe would have taken it from her hand if she had.

She was watching her footing carefully because the trailblazer, in what must have been a moment of irrepressible mischief, had laid the path stones perilously close to the bank of the stream, when she looked up and found herself standing in front of a squat stone enclosure. Walking around to inspect it, she discovered it to be open to the air, with pillars of stacked stones supporting a sloping slate roof. It was evidently a gazebo, with the same primitive quality as the landscape and as painstakingly created.

From the bright, sunlit meadow, the place appeared dark and forbidding to Marianne. She peered around anxiously, feeling unaccountably threatened by the heavy pile of stones. Taking a breath to bolster her courage, she mounted the steps. Walking between two of the pillars into the shady interior was like entering a cave. But once inside, she found it a very pleasant retreat, with a smooth stone bench to rest upon. The curious acoustics seemed to deaden the sounds of the woodland as effectively as the closing of a door.

Marianne sat down.

She looked out onto the meadow, straining to hear the rustle of the breeze stirring the grasses. Gazing between the dark stone pillars at the sun-dappled scene was like looking at another world—a brighter, more innocent world. Marianne’s eyes stung and tears began to flow down her cheeks. It was a world she could not be a part of now.

Not just because of what had happened, but because of the dark, more secret thoughts that pushed into her head: the image of him standing before her, half-clad, his bare legs pressed against her skirts; the remembered sensation of his heavy hand and strong fingers on her breasts, against the sensitive skin of her upper thigh. She wondered, though she did not like to and pushed the guilty thought away as quickly as she could, what it would have been like had Mr. Desmond gone slower, if she had been a willing partner. A great deal of whispering and sniggering went on about the subject, and Marianne wondered what on earth all the interest was about. She had experienced no great pleasure in the act. In fact, she could not remember “the act” at all. She wondered if, under the right circumstances, it could be as pleasant as people said. She tried to imagine what the right circumstances would be, and as a number of indecent scenes appeared before her mind’s eye, she attempted to push those thoughts away as well.

Without a doubt, she was irredeemably vile and sinful.

She buried her face in her hands, trying to block out the images, trying to return to the girl she had been a week ago, knowing in her heart that girl was now part of her irretrievable past.

If Peter Desmond felt guilty about nothing else, he should feel guilty for that.

She was not alerted to another presence in the peaceful little glade until she heard the scuff of a shoe on the stone steps leading into the gazebo. She jerked her head up to meet the very eyes she was trying to forget, though their depth and intensity seemed almost to have burned their impression into her living flesh.

She gasped.

Desmond winced as if she had spat in his face.

She looked like a rosebud as she drew away from him, folding tightly within herself, pink and tender, young and immature, but with great promise in her delicate petals. Desmond realized he had bruised the bud, and his cheeks grew warm with an unfamiliar shame.

It had been many years since Peter Desmond had felt shame. He would have thought his conscience had atrophied completely by now. He remembered vaguely feeling ashamed when young Ronny Withers had gotten him drunk that first time, there at Ketterling, and he had missed classes the next day and been called into the dean’s office.

“What have you to say for yourself, Master Desmond?” Dean Stampos had inquired darkly. Dean Stampos had been a big man, with heavy black brows and the voice of doom.

“I—I believe I was intoxicated, sir,” young Desmond had gulped.

“Believe?” Dean Stampos thundered.

“I was intoxicated, sir.”

“Six lashes, boy, and do not let me hear of such a thing again.”

If Dean Oliver Stampos had ended his direful sentence merely with “Six lashes,” Desmond really believed he would not have fallen from grace—at least not so quickly—nor plummeted to such depths. But the awesome symbol of authority in his young life had added those next eleven words, and do not let me hear of such a thing again, and the exceptionally bright boy had at last felt challenged by his schooling.