CHAPTER NINE
"So y'said you're only staying temporarily, m'lady?" Mr. Trevingham's voice carried with it a stark wariness; he had asked the question more than once on the trek across the countryside, back up the steep, rocky hill to the Norbury estate. As the horses clopped to a slow stop in front of the foreboding, shadow-wrapped manor, Isobel kept a cool demeanor; the sting of the Duke's slap still in her head, she had felt utterly helpless - squirming between hell and something worse. While her time had been so enthralling with Lord Brighton, she still hated herself for liking it - and she hated the duke for his crass nature, taking advantage of her compromised situation for his carnal, base needs.
Now, she had little choice - she simply hoped to never see the vile Eugenius again.
"Yes, Mr. Trevingham," Isobel answered plainly. "Temporarily. I'd... also appreciate your discretion in this particular matter, Mr. Trevingham," her voice fluttered quiet and weak. "The servants, the people in Upton... they worry for me, and I don't want to trouble them too greatly."
"I worry too, m'lady. When will you need my carriage again? Shall I return this evening?" Mr. Trevingham asked, his voice defensive.
"Not that temporarily, Mr. Trevingham," Isobel smiled and sighed. "I shall send a message to Upton when I require you to return for me."
"The bandits haunting the woods are a mite dangerous, m'lady. Perhaps I ought to stay, and watch the roadways up to the Norbury estate," Mr. Trevingham offered, his voice determined and serious.
"No, no, Mr. Trevingham, truly, your services are needed back in Upton. I'll send for you," she sensed how defensive her driver had grown over her, and while it flattered her, she had business to attend to now.
"As you wish, m'lady," he responded, not enamored with her response. He watched the shadow creep along the carriage as he swung around the rough cobblestones, leaving Isobel at the front door. She stepped out, watching as the sun fell behind the towering estate hall, its facade dark; the same as her feelings about its occupant. She had brought little with her, only a single black trunk - for in truth she had very little to bring. The family's debt had struck hard, and she couldn't even afford a newly tailored gown for the trip. Instead, she wore her simple black dress, stockings and heels.
"Who's 'at, then?" Isobel heard Mr. Trevingham comment over her shoulder; she turned her gaze to the steep path leading up to the manor, and beheld a carriage that put her rickety cart, truly, to shame. Its accouterments nearly as opulent as the manor before which she stood, fine wood painted in blue and white gleamed in the sunlight, windows of glass painted with finely-filigreed gold. A pair of snow-white steeds led the carriage ahead; with a black suit and a heavy hat laid down over his eyes, the driver expertly guided the snorting horses to the front of the manor, the supreme luxury of the vehicle bearing down on shabby Isobel as she stepped back. The driver looked up from his steeds, and she saw something deep, dark in his eyes; a sunken green gaze, beneath a head of long and messy straw-blonde hair, a chin marked with stubble and a deeply disturbing smirk.
"Move," he commanded to Mr. Trevingham, in a voice as darkly vexing as that snakelike smile on his lips. Mr. Trevingham offered no protest and only a simple, scared nod to Lady Duskwood, his carriage bouncing along the pathway, its axles creaking under the weight of the crumbling wood and rusting metal. Still wide-eyed at the luxury of the newly-arrived carriage, Isobel's chin hung open in terrified awe.
"You, too. M'lady will be returning soon. Move," the chauffeur grunted, motioning to one side with his finger. Isobel felt compelled to obey; something ghostly about the man touched at the very core of her.
"Your lady?" Isobel asked, gawping.
"Is that any business of yours?" he cut back at her roughly. "Are you a new maidservant? I've not seen you before," the carriage-driver croaked. Isobel blinked, huffing.
"M-maidservant?" she retorted. "I'm—I'm the Lady Duskwood," she explained, half-swallowing her words.
"A lady, eh? Dressed as you are?" the driver scoffed.
"I'm... yes, I'm the Lady and administrator of Upton," she blustered. She felt anger in her blood, but the ice-cold and dangerous stare of this wisp of a man shook away all her righteous rage, leaving her sputtering and weak.
"Y'don't strike me s'much of a lady," he retorted simply. She couldn't figure out what to say, and stood in the falling sun in awkward silence. It then occurred to her - if the driver was waiting for a lady, who could it have been - and what business did she have with Lord Brighton? Jealousy suddenly seared in her blood. Jealousy - and she hated herself for it. How could she feel any sense of jealousy about this man, this man who had crassly used debts she owed to him as reasoning for an improper liaison? Isobel gripped her hands into tightened fists, her teeth gritted, her breaths harder.
"Wh-who is your lady?" she asked, her voice fiery.
"I ain't ever heard of a Lady of Upton," the driver cut back at her with his growling, coarse tone. "Where's Upton, anyway?" she bristled, but the courage to respond fell out of her when his ghostly gaze pierced her once again. She felt humiliated; ashamed. Ashamed of her jealousy; ashamed of her outfit. Ashamed of this entire, sordid situation.
"Upton is—" she thought to interject, when she heard the creak of the manor doors behind her. Eyes popping wide she spun around, expecting to see the Lord Brighton. Instead, breezing past her with an inimitable sense of unperturbed grace flowed a woman dressed in a gown more expensive and elegant than Isobel had ever seen; thick and long and flowing behind her, a gown of gossamer baby-blues and whites in the exorbitant, Parisian style. Embossed with bows and ribbons, she moved with her back straight, her head held high, unaffected by anything in the world around her; not Isobel's gawking, not the ghastly gaze of the driver; not the burn of the sun or the bluster of the wind. Her skin was nearly as pale as the gossamer-white of her dress; hair of blonde lay braided down her back, with not a stray strand to mar the perfect image of an angelic woman strutting undeterred across rough cobblestones.
"M'lady," the driver tipped his hat to the woman, and Isobel froze, watching the elegant young lady approach the carriage. She moved silently, and when she finally spoke, her voice came out as soft as the silk of her dress; refined, perfectly appointed, but at the same time... icy. Uninviting - and steely in its resolve.
"Thank you, Arthur," she regarded him briefly, before her sky-blue eyes fell upon Isobel, who looked like a scabby pauper by comparison. "Is this woman Lord Brighton's new maidservant, Arthur?"
"Claims she's a lady," the driver croaked, seedy and shifting across his driver's seat. "From somewhere called Upton." The lady studied Isobel briefly, tilting her head; Isobel silently squirmed, the woman's eyes as hot and painful against her poor dress and her skin as a blazing sun.
"Upton. A lady, from Upton." The dressy woman's voice felt ethereal, and simultaneously disconnected from reality - cold, even painful to the ears, as if every word closely and judgmentally examined its target. "I've not heard tale of Upton in some time. Certainly its prestige must have fallen in the past years. Certainly," she spoke, her eyes expressionless; almost soulless in their appraisal of Isobel, who tried her best to clumsily curtsy.
"My father passed recently. I'm Lady Isobel H... Duskwood," she responded meekly.
"Duskwood. Duskwood," the lady responded, a gloved finger moving to press against her own chin. "Well. Lady Duskwood. Conduct yourself charitably in the presence of my friend, won't you?" the lady tried to sound friendly, even smiling; but it was an inhuman smile, and her words came more as a chilling threat than an invitation. "Lord Brighton is a busy man. I'm ready to depart now, Arthur, thank you," the woman concluded after a lengthy stare into Isobel's eyes. The threat had shivered down Isobel's back - it felt so improper for a woman of such wealth and poise. Isobel again reflected on the lies she'd seen as the woman in the perfect dress hoisted herself into the carriage, giving a small, almost taunting wave, in Isobel's direction through the glass panes of her expensive vehicle.
The driver's venomous smirk flashed in Isobel's direction once more; with a nod of his wide-brimmed black hat, he gave a quick 'yip' to his steeds and their hooves vaulted into motion, carrying the startling, ethereal countess down the long, gravelly roadway. Startled, rattled; disturbed, Isobel gulped down a breath to steady her nerves at the harrowing encounter with two creatures that felt like they'd come from another world altogether. She nearly fell flat onto her back when she dared take a step, her limbs still frozen.
"Are you quite alright?" another harsh voice barked into her ear; another uninvited tone, and with each step she begged to see Mr. Trevingham's face again to whisk her away from the hell she had stepped in to. Over her shoulder she glimpsed a shorn and elderly figure; the old man, Lord Brighton's short-spoken butler, his face curled into a wrinkled frown, his arms crossed atop his chest. "I trust that your arrival didn't disturb the Lady Maryweather. She's a respected guest in the Norbury estate," he added pedantically. "Now, if you're quite finished, you've been expected, Lady Duskwood."
"Have you always got to be so frank, Werner?" Isobel sighed in soft relief when she saw another familiar face, Lilian the maid, emerge from behind the grunting and barking butler at the doorway. She grinned weakly, comfortably invited by the hardworking woman's loose, ragged smile.
"It's not my job to be kind to everyone," Werner growled.
"That's exactly your job, considering you're the first face most of Lord Brighton's guests are likely to encounter," Lilian commented incredulously. "Come on, Lady Duskwood. Don't mind him, truly." Werner responded with a simple groan and a roll of his eyes, beckoning Isobel into the Norbury estate. She followed dutifully, Lilian assisting her with the single trunk she had brought to contain what garments and effects she could handle. Werner slammed the doorway shut behind the women, and Isobel, with a deep breath outward, finally spoke.
"Ms. Lilian, who was—"
"Oh, the woman in the long, flowing dress? That way she looks at you, it's right frightening, isn't it?" Lilian whispered; the scandalous gossip brought a searing blush to Isobel's cheeks, yet she couldn't help but giggle at the maidservant's assessment. "That's the Lady Maryweather. An heiress from an estate up... somewhere," Lilian laughed and shrugged in a quiet, conspiratorial manner. "I'm not terribly familiar with the politics of nobility."
"You're not missing out," Isobel responded, exasperated. The two huddled beneath the shadow of the grandiose stairwell at the heart of the estate.
"I'm certain I'm not. Though, if there're ladies like you stuffed in those manors, perhaps that's something worth seeing," Lilian grinned. "Though, I suppose I need not go on a search for them. I didn't know that you'd be back for any particular amount of time... are you staying in the village? Has Lord Brighton arranged for accommodation?" Isobel stopped herself from quite immediately blurting out the nature of the arrangement. She stopped, looking up the stairs, indecisive. She so desperately wanted a kindred soul to confide her troubles in.
"I'm going to be... staying here, for some time. I've not yet decided how long," Lady Isobel answered, evasive in the true nature of the arrangement. Lilian pressed her, nonetheless.
"Staying in the manor? With Lord Brighton?" she whispered. "You're not... that's scandal, certainly waiting to happen. An unmarried woman," Lilian said.
"It's not my choice of things," Isobel sighed. "It's—"
"What's this conspiracy against me here at the foot of the stairwell, hmm?" Lord Brighton's voice tore into the quiet assembly of shared thoughts; Isobel cleared her throat, and Lilian smiled up at the duke, who smiled back. "Lilian. Always plotting against me, aren't you?"
"You'd be quite easy to plot against, m'lord," she joked. "You've left little to the imagination."
"There's always something to imagine, isn't there?" he responded in jest. "Lady Duskwood. A pleasure." He strode down the stairs, grasping at Isobel's hand. "I pray that you didn't suffer an encounter with the Lady Maryweather. And if you did, I hope that she didn't quite unsettle you the way that she unsettles Lilian, and the other ladies around the manor. She has a habit of that," Lord Brighton squawked facetiously. "Come. The study awaits our matters and negotiations." Matters and negotiations. Isobel felt a fire in her chest - both confused, anxious. Enticed, but full of dread and shame. Isobel gave a friendly nod to Lilian, who disappeared into the shadows of the foyer. Her eyes met Lord Brighton's again - his brow lofted, charm in his smirk. She took slow, moderated steps up the stairs, keeping her eyes to herself - because she knew he could see so much of her, there. The eyes.
"We still have matters to discuss, don't we, love?..." he murmured as she reached him. Her breath caught tight in her throat when she felt his words breathe against her neck. Suddenly the bite mark he'd left on her neck surged in pain - she remembered it, and the feeling of his teeth buried into her skin; it had swollen, reddened, but now lay as a small, bruised mark, barely visible above the neckline of her dress. It hurt, but it reminded her so much of him, making her legs quiver.
"Who was that... woman?" Isobel breathed out unsteadily.
"Lady Maryweather? Why? Are you jealous?" he teased; she looked away, eyes cast to the carpet.
"Jealous? Don't be absurd," Isobel scoffed, her words not quite as sure as she seemed to be.
"I think you are," he purred, and she felt him closer, upon her body in a whirl; she breathed harder and heavier, her body shaking. She felt him loom so close again and it rattled her - she remember what it was to smell him, feel him, and it crashed like a roaring tide against her mind, her words growing meeker and her cheeks blushing hotter.
"She just disturbed me... is all, I have no... silly trifles, no worries of jealousy in my mind," she laughed anxiously. "Why would I be jealous of you courting some other creature? You 'court' every woman who passes by the threshold to your manor," Isobel teased.
"It's Lady Maryweather who's been doing the courting," Lord Brighton scoffed. "She's not but a virago, a widow sniffing about for power and money. She'd do anything to get the upper hand on me. She's tried to seduce me," he recalls flippantly, "and while I... appreciate the efforts," his voice grew dark, lustful; his breath teased the bruise on her neck and she shuddered. "I have something else I've acquired a taste for."
"I had to lie to loyal servants of my family," Isobel recalled, biting on her bottom lip, pain and anger flowing as freely as the hot, lusty blood in her veins. "I had to keep it all a secret... I couldn't tell old Beatrice, that I'm little more than a pauper, now. But perhaps I'd prefer to be," Isobel sniffled, "perhaps living a gutter is preferable to the hell you and Eugenius have sandwiched me between."
"Hell? Is that what you call our last encounter?" Lord Brighton grinned devilishly; she felt his lips on her bruise, suckling softly; it hurt, a dull throbbing pain, but each throb of sensation made her stomach churn in steamy, erotic ecstasy as she recalled him denying her; spanking her, those stinging, burning slaps. She shoves her memories away as best she can, but they remain there, burning like smoldering embers in the back of her mind, and when he draws close and whispers into her ear she can't resist the sensation of his words tickling her flesh.
"Everyone... my carriage driver, they take me as relocating to your village, for 'convenience'..." she recalled bitterly.
"Perhaps this is hell... but perhaps you're more ashamed of those 'sins', than you ought to be, love," Lord Brighton groaned; she felt her body swept up in his strength, and he pulled her steadily towards the door to the study, its refined maple desk and richly-upholstered chairs shadowy in the flickering glow of a single candle, the blinds drawn tight over the windows, bookshelves stacked across the walls.
"I'll... I'm not some harlot, for you to please yourself with," she protested. "I'm..."
"You're like me. I saw it... remember?" Their eyes locked onto one another; his enticing gaze gleamed, and her unsteady, shaken eyes glared - in defiance, but silently, in want. She couldn't stand to admit he was right - it went against everything expected of her, but how could she deny what made her feel good - what made her feel truly alive? "If this is hell..." he pressed his lips against hers, his words lingering on her skin, "then why not come and sin with me?..."
She breathed deep. Each breath nagged in pain at the mark on her neck - and every breath reminded her of her first time with a man - her time with him. How it had felt like nothing she could ever imagine. So lost in her reverie was she that she didn't notice him carry her body into the study, sidling her slowly as her feet followed without even thinking. He had seen into her eyes - and she had seen into his.
They both wanted... needed, more.