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Chapter Three
Until his marriage six months earlier, there was but one set of circumstances when William permitted the ancient instincts hidden within to unveil themselves and take charge of him for a time.
Fencing.
Unlike his younger brother, he had not struggled to remain focused on his studies with their tutors and had, in fact, enjoyed intellectual pursuits. It was Augustus who excelled in hunting and sport, as was proper. William was destined for the marquessate, after all, while Augustus, as the second born, was slated to fight for the realm through a commission in Her Majesty’s forces.
Yet confidence and fierceness rose within William, and always had, when he wielded his fencing foil, something he attributed to his blood. His great-grandfather had been the second son of an earl, but had been raised to marquess in his own right after becoming a military hero in the Seven Years' War.
Now an active participant of the Thames Fencing Club, alongside the aristocratic and military men who had likewise secured membership through nomination and vote, William had come to rely on exerting himself in thesalle d’armesa few times a week to balance the demanding nature of his parliamentary duties. Fencing required as much patience and discipline as his political work, but it was only in the club that he could set his body free.
Except lately, his mind wandered so much, even in the club, that his riposte attempts dwindled, his thrusts too often went astray, and his counterattacks were sloppy.
Gazing through his wire mask at the French master across from him, William struggled to catch his breath. He and the other club members had benefited greatly from Felix Fortin’s new and exacting instruction, but today the man’s devilish lunges and attacks were wearing him down.
“Allez! Plus rapidement!”
Gritting his teeth, William lunged deeply—and his front ankle gave way. Falling awkwardly at first, he dropped his foil and rolled lithely to his back. Panting, he ripped off his mask and stared at the grand vaulted ceiling of the club, anger fogging his vision.
“On your knees and then your back, Candleton? Are you taking lessons from Fortin or an alley whore?”
The sniveling voice belonged to the youngest son of a duke, and was promptly and roundly met with condemnation from the surrounding sportsmen.
To his surprise, Fortin, a wiry, dark-haired man in his twenties, sank to the floor next to him. “Alors, c’est quoi votre problème?”
“My ankle is the problem,” he insisted stubbornly.
“Non, le vrai problème. Une femme?”
William closed his eyes.Yes, the real problem is a woman indeed.
This infatuation with his wife was costing him dearly in every domain of his life. He experienced difficulty concentrating during debates, excessive eagerness to return home to her company, and now, dangerous distractibility when handling blades. If only his focus had been on fencing and not Beatrice, he wouldn’t be imitating a starfish on the salle’s floor.
A half-hour later, exiting the club on a sprained ankle, William turned to his acquaintance, Viscount Haughley, an athletic and easy-natured man he had known since their days at Cambridge. In need of funds to cover his father’s debts, he had married two years earlier.
“What’s your wisest counsel about marriage?”
“Avoid it until you cannot.”
“Quite amusing. And once married?”
Haughley shrugged. “Spend your days in clubs; nights with your mistress.” He laughed heartily, seeing William’s expression. “Why even askme,then, old man?”
After parting ways with the Viscount, he gave the club one last glance over his shoulder before climbing gingerly into his carriage, vowing to return in one month’s time with his ankle healed…and his brains back in his head.
Tomorrow he and Beatrice were removing to Candleton Hall for his annual visit to escape from London’s heat and stench while the House of Lords broke for summer recess. Perhaps the thing to do was to indulge gluttonously in her company—have his fill of her, then return to sanity.
Isn’t that what you’ve been doing?He rubbed his lips, shifting on the silk brocade carriage cushions. Since finding out she was with child and their subsequent agreement to expand their conjugal duties, he’d found himself going to her chamber every other night. He swallowed, imagining if he truly indulged impropriety as he wished, pressing his body into herseverynight.
Every morning.
Every afternoon.
Falling back against the seat, he shook his head at his wayward musings.The ravings of a lunatic. The indecent obsessions of a libertine.If he wasn’t careful, he knew what path lie ahead—that of his father. Despite that reminder, he found his thoughts returning to Beatrice again and again.
When he limped into the house, ready to soothe his wife’s dutiful expressions of concern about his injury, he encountered instead a most unpleasant discovery.
Mrs. Brown stood directly on the tile Beatrice normally occupied. “Good afternoon, my lord,” she intoned.
