Josh Skinner was wearing his black evening suit over an embroidered waistcoat of pearl grey. He never knew what to do with his top hat, especially on a windy day, but it added a bit of dash so he decided to carry it along with his cane and gloves, rather than wear it. He didn’t think he could fit his head into it now, anyway. His manservant had tonged his fair hair into side curls for the evening.
‘You’re enough to make a cat laugh,’ his sister, Siana, would probably say to him when she saw his new hairstyle and discovered he’d hired a personal servant. Bentley doubled as a butler as well, though he was a bit slow, at times. Still, he couldn’t expect too much of such an elderly codger as Bentley.
A right dandy Josh had become of late. It hadn’t taken him long to appreciate the feel of good cloth against his skin, or note the extra dash a tailor could add to the cut of a garment. And although Siana didn’t know it, he’d been taking dancing lessons from a married couple who ran an academy in their parlour. He was receiving invitations to more and more parties with fancy folk, and needed to learn all the social skills he could. Tonight, he was determined to sweep Miss Pansy Matheson off her feet in a waltz, and without making a fool of himself.
Clodhopper boots and dead men’s coats and trousers brought from market stalls were a thing of the past. He was Joshua Skinner Esquire which, according to Bentley, meant he was a man of substance.
Picking up the stiff, embossed invitation he cracked a wide grin as he read: Mrs Francis Matheson requests the pleasure of the company of Joshua Skinner Esquire on the occasion of her husband’s forty-second birthday. Siana and Francis were also celebrating the purchase of Rivervale House, the first home the pair had set up together as a family.
The occasion was also an opportunity to celebrate Francis’s return from the dead, for his brother-in-law had been reported drowned almost three years ago, when the ship he’d been travelling on to Van Diemen’s Land was wrecked in a storm. His subsequent trials had been a test of endurance for Francis, and for Siana’s abiding love for her husband.
‘Requests the pleasure,’ he repeated softly. ‘Be damned if that blue-blooded doctor my sister married hasn’t made a lady of her without even trying.’
It was odd how well he and Siana had adapted to their changed circumstances over the previous eight years. They wore their adopted status like a second skin. More so Siana, who’d needed the trappings to survive in the society she’d married into. When they were alone together she relaxed a little, but it wasn’t often her peasant blood put in an appearance now – unless her temper got the better of her.
‘I have to be careful for Daisy’s sake,’ she’d told him. ‘I promised our mother I’d care for her, and I want her to grow up to be socially acceptable. I didn’t enjoy being poor, and I try not to let my background show in case I embarrass Francis.’
Daisy couldn’t recall a life other than the one Siana had provided for them all by marrying well. Their younger sister had never known hunger, cold or cruelty since then, and at the age of nine was a confident, pretty child – if a little self-centred.
‘Don’t wait up for me,’ he said to the elderly gentleman’s gentleman who had faithfully served his last master for forty years. Taking pity on the dignified old fellow, who’d been tossed onto the labour market after his master’s death, Josh had hired him for himself. But being waited on hand and foot by someone old enough to be his grandfather made him feel a little guilty. ‘You have a little nip of my good brandy and take yourself off to bed early, Mr Bentley.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Mr Bentley didn’t even flicker an eyelid as he held out Josh’s cloak. ‘You’d better take this, sir, it might get cold later.’
‘Thank you.’ Taking the cloak from the servant’s arm, Josh strode out to the horse and phaeton. As he climbed into the rig and picked up the reins, he reckoned life couldn’t get better than living near the top of the hill.
Below him spread the harbour of Poole, reflecting the lights of the town. There was money to be made if you knew how to go about it, and wealth brought with it respect. Not the respect good breeding brought, the sort Francis Matheson commanded. But all the same, it was good to be called sir by shop assistants, or Mr Skinner by bank managers.
Joshua Skinner Esquire. He grinned with the pleasure of it, wishing his ma and pa had lived to see it. He wasn’t the richest businessman in town by any means, but then, it wasn’t so long ago he was digging up cockles, with a bit of smuggling going on on the side. Now, he and his partner owned a fair portion of the property in town, and were thinking of expanding those interests. Although he was only twenty, Josh knew he’d never forget his former poverty.
He glanced at the house he’d just bought from Siana, and smiled. A canny one, his sister. She’d made him pay a fair price for it, too.
One of these days he’d marry, and he’d make sure his family never wanted for anything. There was a girl he liked and got on well with, but . . .? He shook his head as he reached the end of the carriageway. No, Pansy Matheson was too far above him, and it was no good hankering after a girl he couldn’t have.
Nineteen years old, Pansy Matheson was torn between the choice of pale blue watered taffeta, or a pink silk gown with puffed sleeves and a bodice decorated in artificial roses.
Standing in front of the mirror in her stiffened petticoats, corselette and drawers, she held first one against her, then the other. ‘Help me decide, Maryse?’
Maryse, the elder of the sisters by a year, folded her hands into a skirt of dark blue silk and slanted her head to one side. ‘You haven’t worn the taffeta yet. It will look pretty with your hair curled and those silk flowers in your hair.’
‘It also makes a nice sound when I walk, like shuffling my feet through autumn leaves.’ Pansy caught a reflection of her sister’s grey eyes in the mirror. There was something sad about them. ‘I suppose the uncles are all coming.’
‘The whole Matheson family is coming. You and I are the only females not spoken for. We’re going to be worn out from dancing with everyone.’
‘I’m sure the other women will help out. Is the admiral bringing his intended?’
Maryse smiled. ‘He is, but if she’s as old as he is, she won’t do much dancing.’
‘Well, cousin Roger might bring his fiancée. I bet Aunt Prudence is cock-a-hoop over him winning the hand of the wealthiest heiress in the district. I met her once. Her name is Lalage Lewisham. She’s terribly languid in manner, speaks as though she’s out of breath and smells of violets, like a funeral cortege. Imagine how ridiculous it will sound when she marries the viscount and we have to call her Lady Lalage. I’m sure I shall burst into song. When I pointed this out to Aunt Prudence, she made a long face and snorted, “Stop being facetious, Pansy Matheson.”’
Pansy’s imitation of the Countess of Kylchester made Maryse giggle, something her sister didn’t often do now. ‘Cousin Alder is pestering me to become engaged to him now Roger has settled his suit. He says he’s waited long enough, and demands that I give him an answer tonight.’
‘Alder has made his intentions towards you quite clear right from the beginning. He deserves to have an answer, Pansy.’
Pulling the skirt over her head, Pansy’s muffled response came from within its depths. ‘I like him enormously, of course, Alder is such good fun. But Maryse, I don’t love him and my instincts keep warning me he’s not right for me. Besides which, the thought of a lifetime of Aunt Prudence nagging me over every little thing is quite intolerable.’
‘Then you must tell Alder so.’
Emerging from the gown with her hair all over the place, Pansy pulled a face. ‘I have. He is quite persistent. He just laughs, then informs me that he has ways to make me learn to love him.’
Maryse gave a small shiver.
‘He says I should have grown used to his mother, by now. Aunt Prudence is on his side, of course. Well, she would be with him being the absolute favourite of her sons. She’s spoiled him terribly, so he’s used to having his own way. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in marrying him in my stead, would you?’
‘You know very well I’ve vowed never to wed. Besides, I’ve been in Aunt Prudence’s bad books for several years, so having me for a daughter-in-law would simply not please her as much as having you.’
‘Then perhaps I’ll make a vow not to wed until after you are settled, since it’s traditional for the eldest daughter to wed first. If I wed Alder it will set the seal on your spinsterhood. Dearest Maryse, I want so much for you to come to realize that your notions about remaining unwed are foolish, since it’s possible you may fall in love.’
‘You have no reason to imagine such an event,’ Maryse said.
‘Then we shall grow old together, a couple of spinsters with tabby cats rubbing against our ankles, all vinegar and spit. We can sit by the window with our embroidery, playing games of “do you remember when”, and gossip spitefully about the passers-by.’
‘That’s a perfectly horrible suggestion. I’m sure I’ll be able to find better things to do.’
‘But what if you do fall in love?’
Maryse closed her eyes for a moment, and Pansy could have sworn she saw a glint of tears when she opened them. ‘That will never happen.’ Rising, she moved towards her sister, abruptly changing the subject. ‘Turn around while I do up the buttons on your bodice. Do you want your hair curled? If so, I’ll go and heat the curling irons. Rosie is busy.’
Maryse’s shining brown hair was parted in the middle and drawn back into a satin bow at the nape of her neck. It was an elegant style, but too severe for Pansy’s taste. It seemed as if Maryse didn’t want to appear attractive, which was almost impossible, since her sister had a finely drawn delicacy to her face that would always be striking, whatever the hairstyle.
Although she and Maryse were alike, Pansy knew she was the more robust and animated of the two. She attracted labels such as jolly, lively and hoydenish, while Maryse was regarded as sensitive, artistic, and of late, oddly eccentric.
It was unfair of Aunt Prudence to say things like that about her sister, but it had come about because Maryse had continually thwarted the countess in the quest to marry her off. Maryse had now refused to endure the ordeal of another season in London, so they would never hear the last of how ungrateful and stubborn she had become.
Pansy brought her hand up to cover her sister’s. ‘What has happened to make you determined not to wed?’
‘Nothing has happened.’
Maryse closed her eyes in anguish, wishing she didn’t have to lie to her sister as she remembered the horrifying events on the night of the harvest supper a few years previously. Everything that had coloured her life since, had happened then – the two men, their hands groping her flesh, the smell of scrumpy cider on their breath, the tearing of her innocence as they brutally violated her, one after the other, leaving her bloodied and loathing herself. They had stolen all that was dear to her, then tossed her aside as if she was worth nothing.
She lived in dread that she might be confronted by those men again, and the other three, the ones who had walked away and left her to her cruel fate, that they’d look at her with the knowledge of what had been taken from her, see what they’d soiled. She’d die rather than have that happen, and she couldn’t take such a secret into a marriage. Maryse only just stopped herself from shuddering. To dwell too long on the subject made her hate herself even more.
‘I’ll go and fetch the curling irons,’ she said when the last pearly button was secured. Turning on the heels of her blue satin slippers, she hurried towards the door, feeling as if she needed to be sick.
Siana wore a black silk corselette and a froth of petticoats as she walked into the dressing room separating her bedchamber from her husband’s.
Francis was still in his robe. She slid her arms around him and hugged him lovingly, marvelling that the man she adored had come back to her after a two-year absence. But he was not quite the same Francis who’d gone away, for under her palms she felt the ridged scars on his back. The scars were the result of a brutal flogging when he’d been mistaken for a prisoner who’d escaped from the Port Arthur Prison in Van Diemen’s Land. Now and again, he suffered from melancholy and withdrew from them all, going into his study to be by himself for a while.
‘It’s nothing serious,’ her husband’s partner, Dr Noah Baines had told her. ‘Just provide a loving home for him and give him time to adjust.’
She traced gently along one of the scars with her fingers she felt his skin tense. The flogging was something Francis didn’t talk about. ‘I can’t imagine how awful this was for you. Can’t you bring yourself to tell me about it?’
‘One day, perhaps.’
‘I love you so much,’ she whispered against his ear. When he cupped her face in his palms and kissed her, her response was immediate. ‘Make love to me.’
‘Our guests will be arriving soon.’
‘Then it means you might be late for your own party. Don’t you like me, Doctor Matheson?’
The warm smile he gave her robbed her of breath. ‘When you’re flaunting yourself in your petticoats like a strumpet I can’t resist you, as well you know,’ he grumbled, and subsiding onto a chair he pulled her onto his lap so she straddled him.
She laughed and nipped the end of his nose. ‘We’ve never made love in such a position as this, but it does make me feel like a strumpet.’ Already, he had responded to the suggestion in no uncertain manner, and she teased, ‘If you’d prefer to, you can ignore my flaunts.’
‘I don’t prefer and I couldn’t.’ He kissed the rise of her breasts before loosening them from their bondage. His tongue sought the nubs, sliding across and around them, bringing them moist and swelling to bursting point, like a couple of ripe hazelnuts.
‘I didn’t realize your tongue was so very long,’ she murmured with a sigh of pleasure. ‘What else can you do with it?’
He laughed at that. ‘Unfortunately I haven’t got time to show you. That demonstration was purely in the interests of anatomy.’
Undoing the fastenings on his robe she chuckled when she saw what his attention had done to him. ‘Your anatomy is definitely interested.’
Pushing his hands under her petticoats, he slid his palms under her buttocks and lifted her onto him, easing himself gently into the moist velvety depths of her.
Her breath caught in her throat, then left it in a long, soft, ecstatic murmur. Nothing could ever spoil such happiness.
‘I do love you, my Francis. I always will.’
‘Siana looks delicious tonight, like a piece of raspberry tart waiting to be devoured.’
‘Judging by the smug look spread on his face, and the smile on hers, our brother has already had a bite of her tonight.’ Raoul Matheson took two glasses of red wine from a serving maid and handed one to Augustus. ‘Have you ever seen a gown as monstrously ugly as Prudence is wearing? She resembles a striped toadstool.’
‘The countess never did have any fashion sense. I admit the colour is unbecoming when matched to her complexion, and she’s a little bit on the skinny side for my taste. Still, Ryder has his delightful little amore tucked away.’
Raoul chuckled. ‘Yes, I’ve met her. A simple soul. Ryder doesn’t keep her for her mind, though. Where’s your intended bride, by the way? I’m dying to meet the companion you’ve chosen for your retirement.’
‘Constance has gone upstairs with Pansy, who has promised to read a story to the two girls.’
‘It’s a long way up to the nursery. Pansy will be obliged to help Constance downstairs again, no doubt.’
Augustus Matheson’s eyes filled with laughter as he gazed at his brother. ‘They’re coming back down now. What d’you make of my bride?’
Raoul was temporarily struck dumb. In her early thirties, Constance was an attractive woman with a warm smile and a trim figure. Her bright blue eyes came to rest on Gus, whose wink brought a wide smile to her face.
Raoul nudged him in the ribs. ‘Shame on you, Gus. Even when set next to our sweet Pansy, Constance looks young enough to be your daughter. How did you manage it?’
‘It’s the naval uniform; women can’t resist it,’ Augustus drawled, his eyes assessing as he watched the pair come towards them. ‘I’m certainly looking forward to parting her ringlets.’
On the other side of the drawing room, Josh sipped his drink and watched Pansy talking to her uncles. He smiled when she laughed. He couldn’t help it, for she looked so merry.
Followed by the admiral and his fiancé, Raoul Matheson escorted Pansy onto the dance floor. He gazed around him at the spectators. ‘We need two more couples to make up a square for the Quadrille?’
Immediately, they were joined by Maryse, who was partnered by the Earl of Kylchester. Then Francis stepped forward, pulling behind him a reluctant Siana, who was frantically protesting. ‘I don’t think I can remember the steps, Francis.’
‘I’m sure you will when you hear the music,’ he said, and he signalled to Prudence, who was taking her turn at the piano.
They all bowed to each other, then to their corners, then they went into the chaine anglaise.
Josh grinned and nodded his head in time to the music, trying to remember the sequence of the figure ‘Balancé,’ he whispered to himself, and four bars later, ‘ Change partners.’
One of Pansy’s cousins came to stand beside him. ‘Talking to yourself, Skinner?’
‘I’m trying to remember the sets.’ Josh held out his hand. ‘It’s Alder, isn’t it?’
Alder ignored both his hand and his question. ‘Fancy yourself as a dancer, do you?’
Josh’s gaze sharpened. Alder, grey-eyed like all the Matheson family, seemed to be the worse for drink. He certainly had a mean look in his eye. Josh, who never invited trouble into his life unless it was inescapable, thought it might be judicious to humour him. ‘Not at all, I’m just learning.’
‘What does a farm labourer want with dancing lessons?’
‘I’m a businessman not a farm labourer.’
‘Odd, but I can still smell the bull shit on you.’
‘Be careful I don’t rub your nose in it, then,’ Josh said pleasantly, and exchanged a smile with Pansy when she caught his eye.
‘Don’t forget you’re partnering me in the waltz, Josh,’ she called out just before she was whisked off down the line.
‘Lay one finger on my cousin and I’ll have you, Skinner,’ Alder warned, then walked unsteadily back to where his elder brother stood watching the dancing. Roger had a beautiful but rather vapid-looking woman attached to his arm. The two men spoke together, then looked his way and laughed.
Josh ignored them and fetched Pansy a glass of lemonade to quench her thirst. When the dance ended she took it gratefully from him. ‘Thank you, Josh. What was Alder saying? Was he being mean?’
Josh didn’t want to say anything to make her any more anxious than she already sounded. ‘Why should he be mean?’
‘I’ve just turned his marriage proposal down.’
‘It isn’t the first time, is it? He should be used to it.’
‘The trouble is, to Alder the marriage is a foregone conclusion, so he doesn’t believe me. And this time he sounded different, sort of hectoring, as if Aunt Prudence had told him to put his foot down.’
Usually full of spirit, Pansy sounded so forlorn that Josh felt sorry for her. It must be hard to be a young woman who was under pressure to wed. ‘Perhaps you should talk to your father about it, let him sort it out.’
Her fine grey eyes came up to probe the depths of his. ‘My papa wants me to marry well, so is in favour of a marriage between Alder and myself.’
‘Nevertheless, he’s fair-minded. He wouldn’t want you to be unhappy, would he?’
‘Of course not.’ Before Josh’s eyes, Pansy relaxed and offered him a merry smile. ‘You always make matters sound so simple.’
‘Matters usually are, Miss Pansy. It’s folks who are complicated.’ He grinned. ‘I’m not much good at paying pretty compliments, but damn me if you don’t look as pretty as a dappled pony in that gown.’
‘Joshua Skinner, are you flirting with me?’
‘That depends if you like being compared to a dappled pony or not. Most girls wouldn’t.’
The spontaneous giggle she gave faded as her glance darted past him. ‘Quickly, my father has taken over the piano and he promised he’d play the waltz for me before supper.’
Noticing Alder heading towards them, Josh swept her onto the floor and began to twirl her around in time to the music.
‘You’re good at dancing the waltz,’ she said a few moments later, laughing and breathless.
‘I learned it especially, so I could dance it with you.’
‘Truly?’
His eyes caught hers for a moment and he grinned with the happiness he felt flowing inside him, though it made his cheeks grow warm. ‘Truly.’
From the corner of his eye, Josh saw Alder return to the company of his brother, a churlish expression on his face.
The waltz stopped and the Roger de Coverley was called, which signalled the end of Josh’s dancing. He was elbowed aside by Alder as the women and men made lines opposite each other.
When Alder turned to glare at him as he bowed to Pansy, Josh backed away, the skin along his spine prickling. He could smell trouble coming his way.
Siana could also sense trouble, but it wasn’t in the immediate vicinity. It appeared as a fleeting uneasiness when she snatched a moment before supper to check on the children.
Daisy and Goldie were still awake. How pretty they both looked with their golden hair captured into linen caps, their blue eyes still shining with excitement, for Miss Edgar, their governess, had allowed them onto the upper landing to watch the dancing.
She leaned over to kiss her sister Daisy goodnight. ‘Sweet dreams, my darling.’
Daisy’s arms came up around her neck in a hug. ‘I’m going to dream that I’m grown up so I can wear a pretty gown, marry a rich man and and stay up for the dancing.’
Siana stifled her smile and turned to her foster child, Goldie, whose darker, spun-gold hair escaped in wisps from under her cap. ‘What about you?’
Goldie thought for a moment, then smiled. ‘I’m going to look after the sick people, like Papa does.’
Daisy informed her, ‘Only boys can be doctors. Girls don’t like seeing blood. They faint.’
‘I’m going to be a printer, then, like my brother. The last time I visited him he said I could help him in his shop when I grow up.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be wonderful at whatever you do.’ Siana gave Goldie a hug and went through to the nursery, where Susannah and Bryn were fast asleep.
How dainty Susannah was and how like her mother she looked. Siana smiled as she smoothed the girl’s foxy hair back from her forehead. Her good friend, Elizabeth Hawkins, wouldn’t recognize her daughter when next they met, for Elizabeth had been found guilty of a crime she hadn’t committed and transported to Australia for four years.
Siana turned to Bryn, uncovered and lying completely relaxed on his back with his arms and legs flopped out. She pulled the cover over him then stooped to kiss him, her heart filled with love. ‘Goodnight, my little cuckoo.’
Unease hit her strongly then, a feeling that brought coldness with it and goosebumps racing over the surface of her skin. It was as if the world had shifted, reminding her that happiness could be fleeting. Bryn wasn’t her child, none of them were. The two children she’d carried in her womb had already perished; her son taken by scarlet fever and her daughter, Elen, snatched away before she had lived, in childbirth.
She thought again of her great-aunt, Wynn Lewis, wondering if the woman knew of what had taken place. She hoped not, for Wynn Lewis had always been surrounded by darkness.
Siana had no time to brood over it, however, for Francis came up behind her to slip his arms around her waist. ‘I’m always amazed that there’s nothing of you in Bryn’s face.’
‘The Matheson look in him is very strong.’
‘Aye.’ He gazed down at Bryn, a fond smile playing around his mouth. ‘There’s no mistaking where he sprang from.’
‘You do love him, don’t you, Francis?’
‘Of course I do. He’s my son.’
‘I do so want to give you another son.’
‘I’m content with Bryn.’ Turning her in his arms he tipped up her chin and gently kissed her before leading her out of the nursery. ‘I love his mother, too, and nothing will ever change that.’
Once again, Siana felt uneasy. How easy it was to create a lie. But living with the deception when it involved somebody as fine and as honest as Francis was another thing altogether.
They went down the stairs to be met at the bottom by Marcus Ibsen, who bore her hand to his lips and kissed it. Dark-haired and tall, his eyes a ferment of liquid darkness, she experienced a sense of excitement at the raw power emanating from him.
‘I’m sorry I’m late. Unfortunately, I was detained in town. Mrs Matheson, you look exquisite, like a wild poppy blowing in the wind.’
There was a moment when his words conjured up a sensation of a breeze drifting like cool silk over her skin and the sensual smell of midsummer wildflowers. She gained control of her imagination, and had the sense to avoid his teasing grin. Flirting with danger was part of Marcus’s make-up and hers, but Francis would not appreciate a public display of it, she knew.
Lightly, she said, ‘Maryse overheard Raoul compare me to a raspberry tart, and Augustus said I looked like a glass of burgundy.’
‘Obviously, the Matheson men are lacking in soul.’
Francis laughed. ‘I’m afraid we’re concerned with the tangible aspects of life rather than the ethereal. We’re just going in to supper, Marcus. Will you join us?’
‘Most certainly, and I’ll look forward to the entertainment afterwards.’ His glance went past them, to where Maryse stood talking to one of her uncles and his wife. Beckwith was a magistrate and the more serious of the brothers, the father of two young sons and husband to a wife who fussed. Siana watched the woman brush a piece of lint from her husband’s shoulder, shake out her skirts and straighten the wrinkles in the fingers of her gloves, all in the same few seconds.
As if Maryse knew she was being observed, she turned her gaze to where they stood, her head slanted to one side. Her blue silk skirt gleamed along its folds as her body assumed an elegant pose. The serene smile she wore faltered when her glance met that of Marcus. A delicate tracery of pink tinted her skin.
Marcus slowly edged out a ragged breath.
Recovering her composure, Maryse excused herself and came towards them. ‘Mr Ibsen, you’ve missed the dancing.’
‘Something I regret now I see how well you look, Miss Matheson, even though I’m an indifferent dancer. It would be my pleasure if you’d allow me to escort you in to supper.’
‘Thank you, Mr Ibsen.’ Maryse took the arm he offered.
‘I thought we were friends,’ he said as they strolled away
‘We are.’
‘Then why don’t you call me Marcus?’
‘Why don’t you call me Maryse?’ she countered.
Marcus chuckled. ‘Because I’m trying to make a good impression on your father.’
‘Why? Oh . . . I see!’ An impatient note came into her voice. ‘You know I’ve determined not to wed, so please don’t waste your time.’
‘Being in your company is never a waste of time, even when you’re being a shrew.’
Maryse opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again and gave a soft laugh. ‘I’m not going to allow myself to fall into that trap, Marcus, for you’ll wrap me up in conversation like a spider in a web and before I know it my mind will be changed for me.’
He slid Maryse a melting little smile, and said tenderly. ‘I’ll keep that in mind. You remind me of the first bluebell of summer in the wild woods.’
Laughing, Siana glanced at Francis. ‘I do so love a man with a romantic soul and a honeyed tongue.’
‘Bluebells! Poppies!’ Francis snorted under his breath. ‘What next . . . cowslips? God, save me from my daughters’ suitors.’