Page 19 of A Murder in Mayfair
What kind of lovemaking inflicted such bruises on a woman’s fair skin? “Really?”
“He likes to hold me down when we ...” she murmured without finishing the thought.
I hitched a brow. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen marks on her arms. And her shoulders as well. One time, I’d spotted the imprint of a man’s hand around her throat. Today she was wearing a high-neck gown. Could she be hiding bruises there as well? “He should take more care with you.”
Her lips twisted. “You wouldn’t know, Rosalynd, since you’re not married. Marital relations can be quite physical.”
To the point of inflicting damage? I yearned to ask. But now was neither the time nor the place to hold such a discussion. It would have to wait until after the ball. But afterward, I would most surely bring it up. I feared what her husband would do to her.
After his first wife died from a fall down the stairs, a rumor had spread that he’d caused her death. Nothing had ever been proven. Indeed, no charges had ever been brought. But in the years Julia had been married, she hadn’t been able to conceive a child. And Walsh was growing desperate for another son.
His son Charles had married against the advice of his physician, who’d warned him marital relations would stress his heart. Predictably, Lord Walsh had grown even more frantic. If Charles met his demise, the title and the Walsh estate would go to Walsh’s nephew, something Walsh desperately wanted to avoid. He might very well be thinking of doing away with Julia so he could marry a third time and get the spare he so ardently desired.
“Let us not quarrel, Rosalynd,” Julia suggested. “Can we talk about happier things?”
“Yes, of course. What would you like to discuss?”
“The ball. I was wondering about?—”
She proceeded to ask my opinion about details which I deemed rather minor. But it did make her happy to discuss such things with me. So I didn’t hesitate to offer my advice. By the time she left, she seemed to be in a better frame of mind. I was glad our conversation had done her some good. But after the ball, we’d be having a serious discussion about her husband’s treatment of her. Such behavior could not continue.
Chapter
Seven
A MOTHER’S CONCERN
Iwas seated at my desk drafting the speech I planned to present before the legislation committee, espousing Lady Rosalynd’s petition for women’s suffrage. Given the original had been consigned to the fire, I had no knowledge of the language she had employed. But I knew the committee. The best way to couch the plea would be to explain how it would benefit them. I doubted it would pass muster, which meant it would not make it to the full House of Lords. But I had to try. I had promised Lady Rosalynd.
Suddenly, a presence made itself known. My butler was standing inside my study door. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace. I did knock. You have a visitor.”
I’d been so deep in my thoughts, I’d failed to hear it. “Who?” I asked, somewhat annoyed.
Milford cleared his throat. “Her Grace, the Duchess of Steele.”
He’d barely breathed the words when Mother drifted into the room. “Warwick, sorry to barge in like this. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
I rounded the desk and kissed her cheek. “Not at all.” Taking a step back, I gazed at her. “You are looking well.” Whenever we met, which was not as often as either of us desired, I was reminded of how beautiful she was. Her hair had turned silver, of course, but her ice blue eyes still sparkled with life, and she fairly vibrated with vitality. Age had neither withered her nor dimmed her spirits.
A soft smile bloomed across her lips. “Thank you for saying that, my boy. It does take longer to make oneself presentable these days.”
“You are much more than presentable, Mother.”
“Flatterer.” Her lips turned up at the corners. A sign she truly enjoyed the compliment.
I glanced at my butler, who was still standing at the door, a warm expression on his face. He’d always had a soft spot for Mother. “Tea, please, Milford.” Mother was a stickler for observing the niceties. She enjoyed her refreshments whenever she came to visit.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“Shall we take a seat?” I pointed to her favorite settee.
As she arranged herself on the seat, she glanced around my study. A smile and a nod signaled her approval. “This room. You haven’t changed a thing.”
“Why should I? I like it the way it is.” I took a seat on the sofa opposite her.
“Even when there’s a decided feminine flair to it?” Many years ago, she’d had the settee and sofa upholstered in her favorite shade of blue to match the color of her eyes.
“Even so. It reminds me of you.”
