Impossible Desire

By Beatrice Bechonne

Marguerite Spencer is lovely, penniless and very alone. Her father's recent death leaves her homeless, at the mercy of an aunt in Scotland whose own disappointed love has turned to hatred.

David Enderby, the brutal son of her father's dishonest business partner, has set his sights on Marguerite, who refused him while her father was still alive. The day of her father's funeral, his hatred and decision to marry or ruin her nearly results in disaster.

Marguerite looks up to see the man who has saved her: deep blue eyes, a shock of golden hair and a quiet voice that belies his physical strength. His shoulders are broad enough to carry any burden, and his eyes show a steady heart. But he is of another class.

Falling deeply in love, the two cannot make a suitable match. Will love triumph over society's strict rules about who marries whom?

Set in the Scottish moors and the fanciful Regency spa town of Brighton, Impossible Desire holds the reader with danger, wit, adventure and passion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beatrice Bechonne
• Release date: Mar 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386875949

Book preview

IMPOSSIBLE DESIRE

Beatrice Bechonne (Lori Covington)

Copyright 2010, Beatrice Bechonne (Lori Covington)

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

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CHAPTER ONE

Alone

THE GREAT MANOR HOUSE, built of smooth grey stone, stood on a hill, on an approaching drive lined with ancient oaks. Their leaves were not yet beginning to turn, although the nights had become cool. The home was stately, surrounded by verdant green lawns and embraced by boxwood hedges. Limestone steps worn by time and divided by deep emerald mosses, lead down to a formal rose garden. With the cold northern winds chilling the bright day, the house and its surroundings were austere and lovely, an estate that spoke of refinement.

But on closer observation, the air of neat self-sufficiency was replaced by a sense of loss: the green lawns were somewhat overgrown, although not yet shaggy. The boxwood had not been trimmed recently, nor had the walkways been swept or weeded. The house was silent and utterly still—but for the slightest motion at one of the long downstairs parlour windows.

Marguerite Spencer let the muslin curtain drop into place and turned from the window with a heavy sigh. Removing her gauze mourning bonnet, she stroked her tight bun of auburn hair, from which tendrils escaped in tiny corkscrews alongside her long, delicate neck. A slender girl, her green eyes were shadowed, her normally full lips tight and pale with anxiety. Her cheeks, high and rounded, had been the delicate pink of pale roses, but even that blush had flown. She was tall for a woman, and too willowy to be considered fashionable: in the trend of the time, women were rounded and soft; evidence of being cared for, even somewhat indolent. Marguerite’s form displayed the months of worry, of ongoing deprivation.  Her naturally slim hands showed prominent bone at the delicate wrists. But still, even in the awesome deep blackness of full mourning that added years to her age, she was very beautiful.

Marguerite sighed once more. Her head ached; the muscles of her neck and shoulders were tight cords. Unscrewing the heavy jet earrings that had belonged to her mother, she laid them, one after the other, on the oak side table. The table was dusty, most of the household staff having left the week before. Her movement stirred the still air of the room and dust motes swirled in a shaft of weak sunlight.

Sitting on a threadbare damask sofa in the nearly empty room, Marguerite rubbed the tender muscles of her neck and considered her options. They were limited. Her father had just been buried and the creditors had long ago emptied the house of anything worth having. The few pieces of furniture—the sofa on which she sat, the small tables and the spinet—were to be taken away tomorrow; the estate agent had the key and would let the furniture dealer in, but the money they had fetched had been spent weeks ago.

Her mother’s small collection of paintings had been sold long before and the small chest of company shares her father had owned were completely worthless. She had nothing saved and no inheritance. Even her clothing, in the long time that her father had lain ill, had become shabby and worn.

The house itself was only rented until the end of the week: Franklin Spencer’s death had removed any chance of staying on, as it was clear to everyone that his daughter had no financial resources. With his illness and the loss of his partnership in an importing concern, friends had fallen away like leaves from autumnal trees. Marguerite was penniless—and utterly alone.

A bell rang, and the young maid entered, adjusting her white cap with impatient hands, straw-coloured hair sneaking out around the ruffled edges. Miss Marguerite, she said, her respectful words belied by the impertinent look in her eye. I must be going now: the man is waiting with the cart.

Yes, Sarah, go, said Marguerite. But the maid stood looking at her with a boldness that hadn’t been there a week ago. Marguerite had the feeling she should say something else to the girl, who had been in service at her house these past six months, but she couldn’t think of what to say. All she could think of was how tired she was.

It’s about my wages, Ma’am, the maid said firmly. I haven’t been paid these past three weeks, and—

Oh—of course. Marguerite stood. Crossing the room, she took a small, beaded bag from the oak table. One of the jet earrings was brushed off and landed, tinkling, on the bare wood floor.

How much do I owe you? asked Marguerite, pressing white fingers into the slim reticule, hoping there was enough.

One pound ten, Ma’am, said the maid, tacking on a few shillings and dropping a curtsy. Marguerite searched through her purse until she found the exact amount and handed it to the main with an inward breath of relief.

Thank you, Sarah. And good luck to you.

Thank you, Ma’am. The maid turned and left the room, closing the door carefully behind her, as she’d been trained to do. A moment later the sound of horses’ hooves and the wheeling of a cart passed through the open window. Marguerite put her purse back on the table and picked up the earring from the floor. Pausing to look in the mirror, she appraised herself as if looking at a stranger.

What she saw surprised her: the carefree 17-year-old with rosy cheeks and laughing eyes was suddenly much older, paler and sadder. Her green eyes, shaded by thick, black lashes, were dull from weeping and long nights of caring for her sick father. Any roundness had disappeared as money—and food—had grown scarcer. The face looking back from the mirror was white and frightened; a thin mask of the girl she had so recently been.

Underneath the heavy bombazine dress, Marguerite’s stays felt tight. It was a stifling fall day; finding it difficult to breathe during the eulogy, and overcome by despair, she had nearly fainted from the heat. She wished she could release her tired body from the snug garments that encased it: briefly, she thought about the relief it would be to undress, rinse her face and arms in cool lavender water and rest in a light, cotton wrapper. No, she told herself—there isn’t time. The carriage would be coming soon.

A door sounded; a booming, hollow noise that reverberated through the empty house. The sound of boots followed, and peering from the window, Marguerite could see the glossy coat of a high-bred chestnut stallion. The parlour door was flung open. Marguerite composed her face, trying to look serene.

In the doorway stood David Enderby, the son of a nearby neighbour; a barrister by trade and by nature, a boor. He was tall and slim, with the long, hard muscles of a true sportsman. His hair was jet black, pushed carelessly high on his head. His blue eyes were bright with health and his clothing was impeccable. He stood in the doorway, one leg crossed negligently over the other. His boots gleamed: they would have cost the annual wages of ten servants, Marguerite thought. He was handsome, but there was something in his face—something cruel that made his eyes seem like those of a wild animal—a predator. Like a predator, he advanced on those showing weakness. She shuddered and hoped he didn’t see.

Well, little Maggie, all alone I see, he said, advancing into the room, dropping his whip on the sofa and towering over her. You must be rethinking your decision not to marry, eh, poppet?  Enderby chuckled, but his laugh was anything but amused. Six months ago, his father had spoken to Marguerite’s about the marriage of his son to the bright-eyed, laughing girl, and although her father had advised her to accept, she had rejected the proposal.

English laws regarding women as property were still extant: women married against their will every day to further the financial aims of moneyed clans. Franklin Spencer could have forced his daughter to make the match, but he was a man with a conscience; he couldn’t sell his daughter to a man she didn’t trust; and one he suspected would use her without kindness or mercy.

When Franklin Spencer fell ill, the Enderbys had made another offer, this time directly to Marguerite, but when she demurred, their rage was unmistakable. Suddenly, creditors appeared: Spencer’s share in the business was disputed and the quarterly income greatly decreased. Investments were lost in mysterious ways, ships were waylaid and commodities stolen, clients disappeared and lawyers took the company into the courts. Marguerite was certain the Enderby family was behind the bad luck, but her father would not believe such terrible things of his business partner.

And now, David Enderby was leering at Marguerite, leaning over her, staring into her eyes in a fashion both offensive and menacing. Such a sad little mourner, he said, tracing the black embroidery on her collar with one icy finger. She turned her face away: he laughed.

What, did you think a knight in shining armour would rescue you? he jeered. His fingers tightened on the lace of her collar. Too good for the rest of us, eh? Not anymore, my impoverished, orphaned lass.

He’d spent the better part of the late morning drinking at his club. Marguerite could smell the brandy, like rotten fruit, on his breath. She tried to reason with him. David, you know you never liked me, she began, but his fingers tightened on the frail lace and ripped the collar downward, his hand grazing her breast.

Never liked you! With your books and your music and your sky-high morals! You would have bored me sick. But oh, I would have married you. I would have taken...you...to...that...bed, he growled, suddenly shoving her to the floor. Pins scattered from her hair, sending its gleaming mass in a bright river down her back.

I would have gotten plenty of children on you and inherited my father’s wealth and your father’s portion of the business. Now, my father says I’m a good-for-nothing. Plans to pack me off to France on a small allowance. A pittance! And, he took a step forward and grabbed a handful of Marguerite’s hair, pulling her to her knees as she wept, all because of a stupid little bitch who would only marry for love. He raised his hand to strike her upturned, terrified face.

I wouldn’t do that if I were you, came a dry voice from the doorway. Enderby let go of Marguerite’s hair and his hand dropped to his side. He turned like a vicious animal to the doorway, but like most bullies, faced with the serious eyes of a man who means what he says, he lost his fury in concern for his own safety. Taking up his riding crop, he strode out the door, roughly shouldering the other man aside.

Ignoring him, the stranger crossed the room to the place where Marguerite was trying to rise from the floor. Humiliation burned in her cheeks and her coppery hair flowed wildly around her. Her eyes blazed with fear and anger; set in that white oval of a face, glittering with unshed tears, they were like tourmalines in ivory. The tall man caught his breath: even frightened and shamed, she was gloriously beautiful.

Marguerite saw a stranger: over six feet tall, with a shock of blond hair and eyes as blue and bright as cornflowers. His eyelashes, she noted even in her distraught state, were thick and golden-brown, with straight brows that made his countenance serious. High cheekbones and a muscular build completed the picture.

He was no gentleman—far from it. He was dressed in an off-white, collarless shirt of homespun linen. His breeches were a rough, brown tweed and his thick leather boots, although brushed and obviously cared for, carried the dirt of the fields on them. His skin was golden from working in the sun, but his hands as he helped her from the floor were gentle. He guided her to the sofa, then returned to the floor where, bending down, he collected her scattered hairpins, giving her the chance to tuck her collar in, arrange her chemise and cover her breasts. At last, he approached her, holding out a handful of hairpins.

I think I got them all, he said.

Thank you, she replied, taking the pins, but—her hands were shaking so—unable to rearrange her hair. So much had happened: she was conscious of the fact that everything in her world had turned upside down; that she had been treated like a common woman of the street. Her abuse had been witnessed, which made it somehow even more shaming. But if this stranger hadn’t intruded when he did, Enderby would have taken his satisfaction out in beating her—maybe even inflicting a greater harm. Thank you, she said again, very gravely. She could not meet his eyes, but kept her eyes on her hands, the pins trembling in them.

He looked at her in silence, seeing her strength as well as her fragility. He wondered at the disgusting sort of half-man who would insult and injure such a woman. Every instinct he had, to protect, to reassure, to love was aroused and his azure eyes were full of compassion, determination, desire. 

Marguerite, lost in despair, could not have known that this man whose name she had never heard had just that moment made the most important decision of his life.  Gazing down on her gleaming auburn ringlets, her white, slim, long-fingered hands, her small, neat feet in tightly buttoned shoes, he realized that upon striding through that partly-opened door, he had entered another universe.

One moment, he was a man simply carrying out his employer’s orders, engaged in nothing more than his work; the next, he was lost and wandering, but delighted and inspired. Flooded with longing, he had quickly reached the only possible decision he could make in relation to Marguerite Spencer, although a small voice inside laughed and said it could never be. He had already decided that she would be his, that whatever the risk, whatever the cost, he would have her. She would know soon enough; he would make himself clear to her. But right now, she was like a broken-winged bird; she needed kindness and a steady hand. It was essential that he move slowly, taking great care not to frighten her. He took a deep breath.

My name is Robert; Robert Gillis, he said. I’m to drive you to your aunt’s home in St. Andrews. At this, she slowly raised her eyes.

You are...a driver, she said slowly. The tall man flushed, but nodded. She felt a flash of disappointment, but laid it aside to express her gratitude.

I don’t know how to thank you, Robert, she said, and stopped, because it was true. She had no way to thank him for saving her from Enderby and in fact, she realized with a shock that she wanted even more from him—a man she had just met!

She wanted him to take her in those strong arms and hold her, tell her everything would be all right, that he was here now and she was safe. She wanted to bury her face in his shoulder and inhale the scent of him and feel the warmth and strength of a man comforting her. Of course, these were impossible things to want—but even more impossible to say.  I only have one bag. It’s by the front door.

I know, Ma’am, he said. Would you like a few moments to prepare for the journey? It is a long way.

Marguerite laughed, a hysterical edge in her voice. No, I hate the sight of this place now, she said. It’s ruined for me...I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, she said, and taking her small purse from the table, she put her hand on Robert’s arm. I don’t want to stay here another moment, she said. I’ll do my hair in the carriage.

The carriage left the silent manor house as the wind began to rise. It moaned down the tall chimneys where the fires had long gone cold; sent errant leaves dancing across the stones of the walkways. The once-bright sky was being obscured by lowering piles of grey cloud, but the bright green fields rippled under the wind, even more beautiful. Hedgerows that lined the lanes grew bright with the first frost-touched leaves of blackberry, turned crimson, and clumps of white birches shivered their golden leaves. A distant river sparkled, its steel-blue waters pushing whitecaps under the influence of that turbulent sky. The house, surrounded by gardens and fields, woodlands and moor, stood lonely and grand. Looking at it, Robert repressed a shudder: there was something about that empty house and the grieving eyes of the beauty in his carriage that made him glad for his own cozy cottage, rough but comfortable, hard by the stables.

Once she was settled in the carriage, Robert noticed that Marguerite did not turn in her seat to look back, as most people would, leaving their family home for the last time. She sat staring straight ahead, her chin firm and lips set. Her eyes were sad, but her face was immobile, still like the pale icons at the Virgin’s altar in church. He couldn’t believe that foul man had had the temerity to assault her privacy, to thrust his brutality against her fragility. Robert felt a moment of sheer relief and gladness that he had entered the house when he found the door standing open, rather than waiting for someone to answer. This time his shudder could not be repressed: it rippled over him in a chill as icy as those metallic waters yonder. He clucked to the horses, who picked up their hooves, taking Marguerite Spencer from the Yorkshire dales forever.

The Spencer family could trace their lineage in North Yorkshire to the Roman conquest, so it was only reasonable that Franklin Spencer would choose to bring his family from London to the manor house whose lease he’d inherited from his father. His business concerns centered on imported commodities—tea, spices, cloth—which kept him in London seeing to shipping, financing and marketing the goods his firm brought in from the East.

But when he did come home, what wonderful gifts he brought! Carved wooden chests of fragrant woods, bolts of silk in the brightest hues, fans and combs carved of sandalwood and ivory appeared in the downstairs hallway, along with stranger items—elephant tusks, camel saddles and brass water pipes that her mother ordered taken away as soon as she had examined them, kissed her husband hello and scolded him roundly for bringing such peculiar things into the house. Spencer just laughed, pressing onto his wife’s finger or wrist a ruby or sapphire set in gold—and had the servants load the most objectionable objects back into the carriage for the return trip to the city, where buyers of anything weird and wonderful were easily found.

It was in this house, filled with fondness, oddities and luxury that Marguerite was born, to parents who doted on her and loved one another passionately–an unusual marriage for the times.

Because his Yorkshire estate was so far from London, Franklin Spencer had spent much of his time commuting between a townhouse in London and the vast, windswept moors of his home. Marguerite’s mother, Alissa, who had lived in Paris before marrying and was estranged from her own family, had never been enchanted by the foggy atmosphere and British airs of London, so the girl was raised in the countryside. Her mother longed for a houseful of children, but Marguerite was destined to be an only child. She would have inherited her father’s wealth—had there been anything left to inherit.

But Alissa Franklin died when Marguerite was ten, from a consumption that took hold after she had gone walking on a cold day and come home with a cough. It was sudden, turning her slim body cadaverous, wasting her until all that was left was her eyes, once bright with joy, then blazing with fever. She was dead in a month.

Her husband was never the same, losing much of his joy and humour with the death of his wife. He paid less attention to work and although he was kind to his daughter, he left Marguerite to the care of his household servants while he spent more time in London, away from the house that held so many memories of his cherished wife.

Marguerite had adored Alissa. Her earliest memories were of trotting around the household after her while her mother discussed spices and butcher’s accounts with the cook, hired maids and let them go, cut baskets full of nodding, heavily scented pink roses and bright blue bachelor’s buttons in the garden.

Her mother’s fragrance was a daring, Asian mixture of patchouli and musk; she eschewed the ordinary scents of lavender, lilac or rose as scents for linen, not for people. When Alissa died, Marguerite’s governess searched everywhere, finally finding the girl hiding in her mother’s wardrobe, a silken dressing gown, still imbued with her mother’s perfume, clasped to her face.

Losing her mother was the momentous event of Marguerite’s life, and she soon discovered she had in some ways, lost her