The Blade and the Dove

by Christine King

Genres: General Fiction; Historical Romance; Regency Romance

Synopsis

Trapped she may be, tamed she is not . . . Lady Elinor, the ethereally beautiful wife of Sir Lucien Reveley, is lusted after by many but known by no one. Famously cold and unfeeling, she is regarded by the gossiping Ton with curiosity. Yet beneath her seeming serenity hides a desperate woman - married to a man whose public persona belies the sadistic, sensual monster within. Finally pushed to breaking point, Elinor flees, desperate to escape the increasingly debauched demands of her husband. Living a modest life in hiding, Elinor keeps herself safe, but when she meets a man who sees beneath her reserve, a man who makes her tremble for his touch, the secrets of her past threaten to destroy her fragile peace . . . A stunning new voice in Regency romance, Christine King's love story is filled with secrets, danger and ferocious passion. Perfect for fans of Terri Nixon, Stephanie Laurens or Elizabeth Hoyt

Release date: September 11, 2014

Publisher: Piatkus

Print pages: 304

Sample

Lightning lit up the windows of the large old baronial hall. The candles in the hundred wall sconces flickered as a chill wind blew through the draughty open space. It was decked out in true medieval style, with guests seated on benches at long tables, each table covered in large platters of various meats and fruit, together with flagons filled to the brim with wine. Goblets were in front of the silent guests, and along the bare stone walls of the hall female servants in costumes stood to attention, each bearing more vessels of wine ready for the Revels to begin.

The cold flagstone floor was covered in straw, huge tapestries in glowing colours adorned the walls and a fire was alight in the massive stone fireplace that dominated one end of the long narrow hall. At the other end, the staircase wound up to the minstrels’ gallery.

It was to this staircase that all eyes were currently drawn. The Master of the Revels, the owner of Reveley Castle and current Marquis of Reveley, Sir Lucien Reveley, was standing surveying the scene below.

He was tall, thickset and had once been a handsome young man although now, in his fifties, the signs of dissipation showed in the red hue of his skin and purple veins over his nose and cheeks. Heavy lids covered curiously light, opaque eyes, and he looked at the assembled guests with a cynical sneer on his lips.

His guests that night were predominantly male, drawn by a promise of gambling, fine food, copious amounts of wine and, more importantly, beautiful women. They were from only the best and most noble families of England, members of the Ton seeking more outlandish and somewhat more exciting entertainment than the respectable balls and assemblies on offer elsewhere. The Revels, as they were known, were famous, but spoken of only in whispers, and never in front of ladies. Although, as he smiled down on the assembled company, Lucien noticed a few masked women among his guests, society ladies who sought more adventure than they could find back in London.

With a nod to the musicians, Lucien signalled the music to begin, and he held out his hand to the woman standing behind him.

If she was nervous, she did not show it. Tall, blonde and ethereally beautiful, she approached him, hesitantly at first, and then, seeing him frown, she lifted her head and stared at the crowd below, her face becoming a mask of pure indifference.

A murmur permeated those gathered in the hall as Sir Lucien and his lady descended the curved staircase. He was dressed, as was everyone else, in a black robe, loosely belted at the waist. It was his homage to the old ways, the traditions of the now-defunct Hellfire Club, gone these many years. His Revels were a poor imitation of that club, but his guests dressed in the robes and wore masks, hiding behind a thin façade of anonymity – at least to begin with.

All eyes were on the woman by his side. Unlike everyone else present, she did not wear black, but white. Yet if white was meant to symbolise purity, the dress itself conveyed an altogether different message – so thin it was almost see-through, cut so low and tight most of her creamy bosom was on display, and so diaphanous its filmy layers swirled around her legs displaying their length and shape for all to see. Little discretion was allowed – although the guests could only guess at her nakedness beneath the gossamer gown, it was implied nevertheless. It was indecent and no lady would ever choose to wear such an outfit. Lady Elinor had no such choice.

No flicker of emotion crossed her face as her husband led her to the two chairs at the head of the main table, set across the room with the other tables at right angles to it. She sat beside him and remained upright in her seat as her husband signalled to the servants to pour the wine.

These were not the usual retainers. The girls were outfitted as medieval serving wenches in loose-fitting blouses under corsets laced so tightly their barely covered bosoms were pushed up to their chins, and tight dresses split to show most of their legs. None wore any discernible underwear. They were prostitutes, hired for the night from some of the capital’s most well-known and expensive bawdy houses.

No expense had been spared for the entertainment of the eighty or so guests in attendance that evening.

With his wife seated, Lucien remained standing and held up his hand.

‘Gentlemen!’ he roared, ‘and ladies’ – a few chuckles were heard – ‘welcome to Reveley, welcome to my Revels. Enjoy yourselves, eat, drink and be merry. And remember the only rules that apply here are – there are no rules!’

He raised his goblet to the throng. ‘Let the Revels begin!’

Music and noise swelled; the wenches filled goblets of wine and the feast began. Lady Elinor did not move and her husband turned and handed her a full goblet.

‘Drink,’ he ordered, his voice husky with the desire she always invoked in him. She had learned not to shudder as his glance raked over the slim but seductive curves of her body. Instead, she merely accepted the goblet and swallowed a mouthful as he watched before turning her head to observe the activities going on around them.

Lucien’s attention was caught by the guest on his other side and she breathed a slight sigh of relief. Sipping at the heavy red wine, she put her hand over the rim of the goblet when one of the servants attempted to top it up. She gave the unfortunate girl a glare cold enough to send her scurrying away to more amenable company and Elinor returned to watching the behaviour of her husband’s guests.

Quietly at first, they merely ate and drank steadily of the wines and brandy put in front of them, flirting with the girls weaving in and out of the tables, topping up goblets, clearing away empty plates and replenishing the food on the platters. Elinor herself only nibbled at a plate of cold meats that one of the servants had provided for her. Surreptitiously she managed to spill a few drops of the wine on the rush-strewn floor, sipping a little and swallowing mouthfuls only when she felt Lucien’s eyes upon her. She did not smile; anyone looking at her would have thought her as cold and unmoving as one of the naked statues that adorned Lucien’s gardens. Sitting silently beside her husband, she gazed indifferently at the crowd as the alcohol started to have an effect and the antics became more outrageous. She knew that by midnight the scene before her would resemble nothing more than an orgy; those guests not drunk or fornicating would be next door in the room set aside for gambling and with luck her husband would be among them, winning or losing a fortune, she did not care.

She felt eyes other than her husband’s on her. She was used to being stared at; it pleased her husband that other men would look on her, lustily drinking in her youth and beauty and the hinted-at nakedness. It gave him a sadistic pleasure to encourage a young man to try and trifle with her before taking the suitor outside and horse-whipping him for daring to lust after his wife.

Elinor was careful not to make eye contact with anyone. At first if anyone spoke to her she had responded, while declining offers of dancing or gaming, never daring to leave her husband’s side. Then she had witnessed one such horse-whipping incident. The young man concerned had been hurriedly taken away by his friends and a scandal averted. Lucien had almost killed him. She knew her husband well enough by now to realise that such an occurrence had caused him no remorse, no regrets or sorrow – on the contrary it had excited him. Since then she had learned not to look directly at anyone, and not to speak, only leaving the proceedings when permitted to do so by Lucien.

The night dragged on. The feeling of being watched would not go away. She glanced around the room, careful not to draw Lucien’s attention. He was deep in conversation with a group of his cronies. Laughter exploded from them from time to time. Good, he was in a pleasant enough mood. She may yet get away and not be forced to stay the entire night. So she remained, unable to sleep, upright, watching as the Revels degenerated into the kind of bacchanalian orgy she so despised and which Lucien found perversely gratifying. She had once almost fallen asleep and been so severely punished for it later that at subsequent parties she never so much as yawned.

Her wide, dark-grey eyes swept around the room. The storm outside was so fierce the thin windows of the hall shook. Rain pounded against the panes of glass and lightning flashed every few minutes. She had felt cold coming here from her room, but Lucien would permit no cloak or wrap to obscure her bare shoulders so she had not even tried to cover herself. Her long blonde hair hung in carefully arranged ringlets over one shoulder, hiding her exposed bosom. He had been so satisfied with the sight of her in the flimsy dress that he had not remarked on her hair; he had been known to make her pin it up so that more of her would be on display.

Her eyes found those that had been staring at her. For the briefest of moments she stared at him. In those few seconds she took in a tall, dark-haired man, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, his dark complexion telling of someone who had been overseas; she could not see his eye colouring from this distance, but he stood poised and tense. To do what she could not imagine; there was no outward sign of trouble here, despite the fact that the party was already taking its normal turn for the worse. He was leaning against the rough walls, sipping at his goblet of wine, but his eyes had been surveying the room over the rim, coming to rest on her; the expression in his eyes was unreadable, unfathomable.

She looked away. She did not dare let her eyes linger and contented herself with staring at the intricate embroidery on the wall hangings around the room. They were meant to appear medieval, but she knew Lucien had had them specially made for his false baronial hall, which he had built on the rear of his house; an extravagant display to show how wealthy he was – his idea of a folly, she supposed. But folly or not, it had proved popular and this was one of many such events she had been forced to attend.

Despite her carefully arranged mask of indifference, she could not help but let her eyes sweep around the room once more, seeking out the stranger who had been watching her so closely. He was still there, looking at her, his attention being sought by one of the highly paid whores her husband had imported for the night. For some reason Elinor felt relieved when he shook his head and the girl moved away. He looked up again and found her eyes upon him. His expression hardened into an intense look of dislike and disgust, and Elinor was so shocked she almost let out a cry of dismay.

She must have done something because Lucien turned to her, his senses alert to her slightest movement. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ he demanded.

Her face was its usual cold, composed mask again. A façade to deceive him more than anyone, never to let him see her true feelings. Never. Her life depended on her composure.

‘Nothing,’ she replied, sounding remarkably assured. ‘I am just growing bored.’

His eyes narrowed; he would brook no criticism from her or anyone else. ‘What would you like to do, my lady?’ he enquired, his voice a smooth silken veneer over his ever ready temper.

She shrugged. ‘Perhaps we could visit the gaming tables,’ she suggested, waving her white feathered fan languidly in front of her pale face.

His face cleared. ‘A delightful idea.’ He held out his hand and they stood, the light behind Elinor making her gown appear transparent. Head held high, ignoring the lascivious looks directed her way, she accompanied her husband through the crowded dining hall and into the adjoining salon. Medieval opulence gave way to expensive elegance: ornate, heavily gilded mirrors and pale-green textiles adorned the walls, and a Chinese carpet lay on the floor, its varied green and gold colours picked up in the wall coverings. The whole scene was lit by golden candle sconces. And, at half a dozen tables, some serious gambling was taking place.

Lucien was immediately drawn to the tables, and after escorting his wife over to one hosting a particularly intense game of faro, he took the spare seat. There was a fortune on the table, and Elinor allowed herself to glance at the money. Such thoughts of wealth and freedom were not an option, and not for the world would she let anyone, let alone her husband, witness her unspoken desires.

She stood beside him as the game continued and watched with some dismay as the pile of money was whittled away, none of it in Lucien’s direction. Losing heavily at games of chance would only annoy him, making his already unpredictable mood swings even more uncertain.

He looked up and saw one of the other gamblers gazing at Elinor. Deliberately, he put his arm around his wife’s waist and pulled her unwilling body against him. His other hand roamed across her stomach and up towards her breasts. His dark eyes sparkled and a leering smile lifted his expression.

‘A beauty, is she not, Willoughby?’ he said, amused at his wife’s shocked stiffening.

‘Indeed she is, my lord,’ Willoughby agreed, his eyes greedily taking in the sudden quickening of Lady Elinor’s breathing, the rise and fall of her breasts.

‘What would you wager for the pleasure of her company?’

A sudden silence fell on the gamblers at the table. Elinor stood stock still, wondering where this was going. Her husband loved to toy with people but she could not imagine for a moment that he would deliberately offer her as a wager in a game of chance.

Willoughby was drunk. His face was flushed and his eyes were red, but the lady beside Sir Lucien was so tantalisingly beautiful, so cold and so unattainable – like a remote star – that he felt himself throwing caution to the wind.

‘What could I possibly wager against the pleasure of the company of such a goddess?’

Before Lucien could answer, a hand appeared out of nowhere and clamped down on Willoughby’s shoulder, jerking him to his feet. He was pulled away from the table by the man Elinor had seen staring at her earlier.

‘Sir Hugo!’ Lucien protested, a cold smile replacing the leer. ‘What is the meaning of this? We were merely jesting with young Willoughby.’

Sir Hugo Trevellyan looked down at Lucien and an expression of deep loathing momentarily clouded his attractive face. His smile did not reach his eyes. ‘Sir Lucien, Willoughby is young and foolish and, as you can see, as drunk as a lord. He is in no fit state to jest or gamble for that matter.’

He pushed Willoughby into the arms of another man standing behind him. Turning back to Lucien, he glanced at Lady Elinor and his smile did not waver, his expression mockingly polite.

‘If you will both excuse me, I will take Willoughby home and let you carry on with your amusements without him.’

Lucien’s heavy red face reddened further. He did not care to be made to look a fool and it took all the self-control he could muster to keep the smile on his face. He released his hold on Elinor and she took a step backward, more dismayed than she could explain by the look of repugnance she saw on Sir Hugo’s face as his glance swept across her.

She knew what she looked like. Her husband had made her dress like a whore. Her neckline was so low-cut the filmy material barely covered her nipples and he had held her and fondled her in front of these men. She felt more degraded and humiliated than she had at any other time in her life.

She wanted the floor to open up and swallow her as Sir Hugo’s look told him everything he needed to know about her: she seduced unwary young men and her husband would fleece them, sending them on their way with a beating so severe it could kill them – while she, this emotionless beauty, moved on to her next victim. Hugo’s disgusted face said it all.

‘If you will excuse us, Sir Lucien, I think it’s time we escorted young Willoughby home.’ He bowed to their host and, holding Willoughby between them, Hugo and his companion, William Erskine, marched the young man out of the gaming hall.

Lucien followed them with his eyes, watching as Hugo and William joined the rest of their friends and the whole party left. They consisted of six of the noblest members of the Ton. Willoughby and Hugo on their own would have presented no difficulty but six young men all related to some of the most influential families in England were another matter. Hugo and William had recently resigned from service with the Duke of Wellington; they were battle-hardened professional soldiers and would not be so easily overcome.

Abruptly aware of the silence that had followed the departure of Willoughby’s party, Lucien sought out his wife. She was standing behind him, as cool and poised as before, staring at her husband, totally expressionless. Wordlessly, she raised an enquiring eyebrow. He nodded, suddenly in no mood to taunt her further. He would attempt to melt that ice maiden exterior later, in his own unique way. In the meantime she could go – she had served her purpose. All present were aware of her – she was his prize – beautiful and untouchable. Any woman in this place was available for whatever type of pleasure required, no matter how depraved – any, of course, except Elinor. She was desirable and utterly unattainable. And she was his. His alone.

The look he exchanged with her spoke volumes. She curtsied to him, her head bowed, affording him and every other man present the sight of her almost-bare breasts. She turned and walked slowly away.

Elinor wanted to run but she forced herself to walk sedately through the room, back into the baronial hall where the Revel had finally descended into the kind of orgy she had been dreading. Unmolested, she returned to the stairs, up past the musicians and finally into the house, making her way alone to her bedroom.

Before stripping off the hated white gown, she went to the window and looked out at the stormy night. She watched as two carriages drove away. For a moment she thought she saw the face of Hugo Trevellyan at the window of the second carriage. She trembled as she gazed down at him; she could not bear to think of the way he had looked at her. She shivered, remembering that look. He had hated her – she recognised hatred when she saw it. He did not know her, he saw only the façade she was forced to adopt, and he had despised her for it.

In silence she watched the carriages stop at the end of the drive. The castle resembled a fortress tonight: Lucien had armed men guarding the gates, ensuring that the only people entering or leaving were invited guests. The Revels were a secret known only to those members of society who relished the unusual, the perverse. Lucien issued his invitations carefully; many of the men who attended were some of the most exalted members of the nobility, and insisted on total anonymity. Lucien guaranteed them the secrecy they desired. Elinor watched as the carriages were allowed to leave and the heavy gates locked behind them.

Sighing, she let the curtain drop and turned to her maid. She slipped out of the dress and into her nightgown, which covered more of her than the white gown had. She did not attempt to get into bed and sleep. He would be joining her later; hopefully he would be too drunk to do anything but she knew better than to try and feign sleep when he came in. Sitting on the window seat, she let her head rest against the cool pane of glass as she waited, listening to the sounds of merriment and debauchery go on long into that dark and stormy night.

Day dawned and Elinor awoke to find she was alone. Whether it was drink or gambling that had kept Lucien away she neither knew nor cared; she was only relieved something had intervened to save her from another night with the man she despised with every ounce of her being.

Her maid came in with a mug of hot chocolate and she sat up in bed, propped against the pillows, to sip it and wake at her leisure. It had been well into the early hours before she retired and she lay there now, pale and still tired after her long vigil, preparing to face another day. Her maid was a sullen, stern-faced woman. When Elinor had arrived at Reveley Castle five years before, a young and innocent bride, she had been allowed to bring her lady’s maid from home. Within a week the girl had been dismissed and sent back to Elinor’s old home. She had been replaced with Mrs Hacker, the wife of the castle’s steward. When, after a few days, Elinor had realised that everything she said or did was reported word for word back to her husband, she very quickly learned to keep her own counsel.

‘Hacker,’ she addressed the woman who was currently sorting through her wardrobe, picking out a suitable day dress for her mistress, ‘have all the guests left?’

‘No, my lady,’ Hacker replied, ‘some of the gentlemen stayed over. They are having breakfast in their rooms and his lordship will see them at luncheon.’

‘Am I to join them?’ she asked, well aware that Hacker would have received instructions from Lucien.

‘No, madam, his lordship requested that you remain in your rooms until everyone has gone.’

Elinor frowned, but refrained from arguing with the maid. She was virtually a prisoner in her own home, and despite whatever plans she may have had, she knew she would have no option but to remain sequestered in her apartments for most of the day. At least the rooms were comfortable, although she was longing for some fresh air.

‘Pray would you kindly ask my husband if we may visit Mrs Jones, the vicar’s wife? I understand she is still unwell and I had promised her a visit. We will take the carriage obviously.’

‘Yes, my lady,’ Hacker replied and continued with her task.

Sighing, Elinor went into the adjoining bathroom and saw that Hacker and the other maids had already filled a tub with her favourite rose-scented water. Gratefully, she disrobed and eased herself into the hot, soothing water. Her back still ached a little from the attention her husband had paid her a few nights earlier. Displeased with something she had said, he had waited until they were alone in her bedroom and had hit her, hard, in the sensitive spot on her back just above her kidneys. When she cried out his eyes had lit up with strange sadistic pleasure, and she had stifled any further cries, biting her lip almost until it bled.

Silently she bathed, remembering with nostalgic pleasure the way her former maidservant, Jenny, had made her laugh with her nonsensical chatter. Jenny had been with her for years, comforting her when, aged only fifteen years old, her mother had died of a long-term illness. Jenny loved her, consoled her and looked after her when her father had shamefully neglected his only daughter in favour of the son and heir he had so desperately wanted.

When Elinor was eighteen, he had remarried. By the time she was twenty-one, she found herself an unloved daughter, a nuisance, a thorn in the side of her new stepmother. Enter Sir Lucien Reveley. Memories of the handsome marquis who had so ruthlessly wooed her and swept her off her feet surfaced briefly. He had been so handsome, so urbane, so sophisticated, she had allowed herself to be convinced that she would be cherished, even beloved.

Her father – urged on no doubt by his new wife eager to be rid of the attractive stepdaughter whose ethereal beauty so recalled that of her mother – was at pains to describe to his daughter all the advantages of such a match. She had already had her head turned by the marquis, and her father had not given her any time to change her mind from that first favourable opinion, arranging the wedding with unseemly haste.

Elinor’s eyes darkened as the memories threatened to overwhelm her and she shook her head to dispel them. Stepping out of the tub, she found herself wrapped in the softest cotton towel. Hacker assisted her mistress to dry and to dress, and then, with her seated at the dressing table, she brushed her long hair, teasing out the tangles and dressing it in the severe style Elinor favoured. Curls and ringlets were strictly for evenings. During the day she kept it swept up in a knot, held by combs and plain ribbons.

‘A letter has come for you, my lady,’ Hacker said when she had finished.

‘And where is it, pray?’ Elinor enquired, although she knew very well the answer.

‘The post was taken directly to the master.’

Elinor pressed her lips together to prevent them uttering a sound. She had learned over the previous few years that her protests and annoyance at this gross invasion of privacy counted for nothing. Her letter would have been opened, read and reread by the time she received it. However, she knew that it would be from her cousin, Louise, her only regular correspondent, and even Lucien was not cruel enough to deny her Louise’s letters. Louise was no threat to him. She had been born into the same good family as Elinor’s mother, but had failed to make the magnificent marriage expected of her and had retired from society instead, married to a colonel serving in the army of the Duke of Wellington; she was happily married but with no money, power or influence to intimidate Lucien.

Louise and her husband had attended Elinor’s wedding and they had detested Lucien on sight. Appalled that her uncle had arranged for his beautiful daughter to marry the marquis, Louise had only been appeased when Elinor smilingly confided in her that she was entering the marriage with open eyes and was perfectly happy with her situation. Whispered rumours of the marquis’s reputation had reached the ears of Louise’s husband but faced with Elinor’s insistence that she was content with her future as the wife of Lucien Reveley, he had kept his own counsel, knowing his warnings would fall on deaf ears.

Now Lucien read every letter addressed to his wife and it amused him to hear of her dear cousin’s continuing dislike of him. But Elinor’s letters contained nothing except a discourse on her daily activities. What he did not understand was the truth behind the words, for her visits were always accompanied, she was never allowed to be alone for long and her every move was watched, spied on and reported back to him.

As she allowed Hacker to finish dressing her hair, Elinor carefully schooled her features into her habitual emotionless expression. She did not waste time in conversation with the maid, but went through to the private parlour next door to her bedroom and seated herself at her writing desk.

She was longing to see her letter. The infrequent letters from her family were her only contact with the outside world. She very rarely left the estate, and her only visit in the last few years had been to see her father when he lay. . .