Page 41 of Margins of Love
Yours fondly,
Lady Carol Bustle-Smith
Eve handed her son the letter. “You brought this upon yourself.” Her authoritative tone captured her London essence.
“How is that? Through my heritage?” He combed both hands through his hair.
Eve crossed her arms and raised a brow, giving him her strictest ton glare.
“Mother, we count the year 5573, and her people count 1813,” Fave trailed off into the philosophy of his heritage and the Jewish calendar versus the Georgian.
“Her peopleareour people, Favale.” Eve’s voice softened with the use of his nickname. “We are EnglishandJewish.”
“That notion comes and goes as she pleases. Let me see”—Fave paced the green drawing-room—“When it’s high tide, the Jews are convenient moneybags. But then, at the low moody tide, we are… let me see that again”—he unfolded the letter—“Ah! ‘Insufficient linage.’” Fave spat out the words as he would a rotten fish. If anything was impeccable about him, it was his lineage. It was because of his lineage that he was in this situation. It was to safeguard the lineage that an arranged marriage to an unknown bride was looming. Lineage. Lineage. As if he were Jewish royalty and had to marry a Jewish princess. And it was because of this that Rachel was somewhere where he was not. And that was not fair, because he wanted nothing more than to hold her. She was his princess.
“I am not even hoping for a ton marriage. What is she holding over our heads?” He could not hide his resentment from his mother.
“You know… you did… after all,” Eve said, whirling her hand in a messy loop.
“Mother”—Fave gave her a boyish grin—“You know this was not the first time. I am not the only one to…” Fave copied the swirly motion with a mocking feminine flair.
“But youarethe only one, son.” Eve looked sad now, her voice resigned.
Fave exhaled and dropped onto a chair. It was true. He was the only Jewish rake in the ton, except he was not a rake, because he guarded his virginity, one of the many burdens of his Cohen status. Only Arnold threaded the margins of the ton, dodging marriageable ladies. Paradoxically, what disqualified Fave from British nobility made him Jewish royalty. Just like a crown prince, he would have to maintain the dynasty with heirs of pure bloodlines. Fave had certainly never been aristocratic elite if it took one sharp-tongued gossip to exile him from society, or at least threaten to do so, and destroy his family’s livelihoods. Arnold never dipped into these circles for the same reason. And, until recently, it did not matter that he had, even though he had not dipped very deeply in actuality, Bustle-Smith would spin any lie to suit her purpose, irrespective of the Pearlers’ honesty and respectability.
His mind trailed off to Rachel. Their stolen kisses at the lake. In the rain. Even the last time, in the orangerie. His body hardened at the thought of her. He closed his eyes and let the memory of her scent, the exotic frangipani, envelop his senses. The fulness of her lips, her soft hair in his hands, and her narrow hips pressed against his. He felt her loss physically as much as he did emotionally.
And this pain was imposed mainly by Bustle-Smith. He clenched his jaw. He leaned forward and rested his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. He looked altogether too big for the dainty upholstered armchair—a despairing Adonis.
“Stop that at once! Your heartache makes you sick. She is not worth your health!” Eve admonished Fave.
“You do not know that,” he growled.
“I do know that it helps nobody when you tense up and get in this state.”
“What state, Mother, pray tell, do you deem appropriate for me to be in then?” Fave knew he had pushed the line.
His mother wagged her index finger. “Come to think of it, Carol has never imposed any conditions on her blackmail before.”
Silence crackled between them. They looked at each other, curiosity bridging their cleft. When they emerged from the moment, they were mama and kid again, a harmonious blend of love and support, need and nurture.
“So I will try to find out what makes this particular instance of blackmail special,” Fave said.
Eve nodded approvingly.
“But watch your every move, son. She wrote that you ought to call back your hounds.” Fear was evident in Eve’s voice. This time, Bustle-Smith had gone too far.
“I know she is threatening Lizzie’s season.” Fave continued, “Would that be such a bad thing?”
“What on earth are you implying?” Eve whipped her head back.
“It is just that… Mother, you know… she is not the sacrificial lamb.” Fully aware of his remark’s provocation.
“I don’t… we don’t… Your father and I do not know another way,” Eve admitted, standing closely in front of her son.
He placed his head against her belly, and she held him as she did when he was a boy.
“I will try to disarm her. We have to get Lizzie out of her line of fire first, though,” Fave said.
