Page 50 of The Viscount's Pearl
Frances thought of how he had kissed her twice, how both times she would have liked more, how warm his hands were, his heart beating when she had laid her hand on his chest and begged him to marry her.
“Yes, Mama,” she said, hopefully leaning forward, ready to receive any guidance that Lady Lilley might be able to bestow which might bring her closer to Laurence.
Lady Lilley swallowed. “So, you must submit to your husbandwhenever he sees fit,” she began, clearing her throat twice before continuing. “That, you see, Frances, is how children are… begat,” she managed, reaching for a suitably biblical word to help her.
Frances nodded. “I would like children,” she said. “And Lord Barrington will expect them.”
Lady Lilley looked relieved. “Indeed,” she said, more confidently. “Quite right and proper. So, on the night of your wedding, and on any other night, your husband will come to your bedchamber, and you will… submit to him.”
Frances nodded, hoping that more details would be offered.
“And it is most important,” said Lady Lilley, swallowing and then clearing her throat again, “that, as a well-bred lady, you should not in any way behave… wantonly.”
“Wantonly?” Frances was not sure what was meant by this word. The only time she had heard a woman described so was a maid who had promptly been dismissed.
“You need not worry,” Lady Lilley assured her. “You need only keep very still and silent, and all will be well. You can close your eyes.”
“Still and silent?” repeated Frances uncertainly.
“Yes,” said Lady Lilley. “Submit to your husband and stay still and silent throughout the… the act. That way he will know that you are a true lady and be pleased with you. Then he will leave the bedchamber and you… well, Deborah will come to you and help you clean yourself.”
“Clean myself?”
“Yes,” said Lady Lilley, standing up with evident relief at having got through the entire explanation. “Goodnight, Frances.”
Frances was full of questions but they did not seem suitable, so she only nodded. “Goodnight, Mama.”
The door closed behind Lady Lilley and Frances sat and thought for a while. She had received no real guidance, but onephrase stood out to her. That Laurence would be pleased with her if she remained still and silent. She wanted very greatly to please him, to make him happy, to perhaps make him love her. She would do as her mother had instructed.
Laurence was excited. All the turmoil and sadness, the nonsense and misunderstandings of the past few months were about to be swept away, leaving him with a fresh new start and a happy life to look forward to. He was a viscount and his estates were all in sound order. He was about to marry Frances and, if he could persuade her, their marriage might become more than one of convenience. Yes, there was the fuss of an overly lavish society wedding to be got through, but once that was done, he could make Frances happy, he was sure of it. In quiet moments, alone, he thought of her wide eyes, her soft lips and that shocking but erotic glimpse of her thighs. He would teach her all he himself had learnt in the bedchamber for their mutual pleasure.
On the morning of the wedding, Frances was roused before dawn to be bathed and dressed, her mother hovering over the servants, making even her accomplished lady’s maid nervous, while faithful Deborah was demoted to an assistant, fetching and carrying. Frances submitted to being dressed in a gown of white silk trimmed with Brussels lace, topped with a pelisse in white satin trimmed with swansdown. The cold pearls were slipped around her neck, her wrists, the earrings poked into her ears, the weight of them pulling at her lobes. Her hair must be curled. Hairpieces would not do for so important an occasion, Lady Lilley decreed, and so she must sit still while the ringlets were carefully teased into position, then topped with the magnificent tiara, from which a delicate veil was draped.
The carriage took her to St James’ church in Piccadilly, for no society wedding could fail to be held there and Frances wilted at the noise and bustle of dozens of carriages, followed by the whispering rustles as everyone took their seats, the overpowering scent of vetiver, the stylish perfume of the moment, bringing on a wave of nausea.
She barely heard the words spoken over them, managed a faint, “I will,” when a silence fell and she was stared at expectantly, held out her hand as the ring slipped over her third finger, then wrote her name. She would have liked to have clung to Laurence, but that would indicate too great an intimacy between them and she did not want him to think her presumptuous. Instead, she only lightly rested her hand on his arm as they accepted well wishes and returned to her new London home in Grosvenor Square, Barrington House, for the wedding breakfast.
More than sixty diners gathered together in the ballroom, which was decorated with flowers and a table laden with every agreeable dish suited to the occasion, from rolls, butter, tongue and ham to hot chocolate and buttered toast, cakes of every kind, the bridecake itself sitting, gold and white, in the very centre. There must be cutting of it and tasting the heavy fruit cake, while many toasts were drunk to their health and to the marriage.
And then it was over.
All the fuss, all the endless noise and smells and tastes, the constant kissing and shaking of her hand. All gone. Now she was alone and at last she could rest.
Except that she was not alone. She was in a strange house, full of unknown servants and, above all, a husband.
“Deborah can take your bonnet and pelisse,” said Laurence. “Then we can go to the drawing room.”
Silent, she nodded and Deborah hurried to undo the bonnet and lift it away from the precious ringlets, unbutton and removethe pelisse. Frances would have liked her to have removed all the pearls as well, but that would be thought of as odd. She followed Laurence into the drawing room.
“We will travel to Margate in a few weeks’ time,” he began, and saw her face light up. He gave an anxious laugh. “Although I should warn you, we have also been invited to a ball held in our honour.”
Frances stiffened. “A ball?”
He nodded. “At the Assembly Rooms, it is themed to be a Pearl Ball.” He might as well tell her the worst of it. “There will be over a hundred guests and our hostess is Mrs Pagington.”
A vast ball at which she, as a new bride, was to be the guest of honour. A ball at which everyone would stare at her and expect her to be the perfect Viscountess Barrington, would judge her manners and behaviour, her grace or lack thereof. Laurence watched her downcast face. He had failed her, though it would have been impossible to have refused without causing offence. He wanted to make light of the ball, to find some humour in their hostess’ overbearing manners, but the look on Frances’ face left him silent.
They ate a small quiet nuncheon, neither having much appetite after the lavish wedding breakfast, before climbing into the carriage to drive to the Surrey estate, a matter of four hours. For much of the journey Frances closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep, for any familiarity or friendliness between them seemed to have gone, lost in polite formality.
