The Incredible Honeymoon (Bantam Series No. 46) Read online

  THE INCREDIBLE HONEYMOON

  Barbara Cartland

  The Earl of Lemsford’s daughters were very different, the eldest was a perfect lady and the second a little tomboy. When Lord Athol, the Duke of Doncaster sought the hand of his second daughter, the Earl stared at his prospective son-in-law in undisguised horror.

  “I think Your Grace has made a mistake!”

  “Not at all,” replied the young Duke, “it was actually your second daughter I had in mind—Lady Antonia...”

  “Antonia?”

  “Of course,” the Duke continued, “if you do not wish to give your consent to such a union...”

  “My dear fellow, I’m not saying you cannot marry Antonia,” the Earl said quickly, “I merely thought you would prefer my elder daughter. No matter ... Ah, Antonia, may I introduce His Grace the Duke of Doncaster. The Duke has asked for your hand in marriage.”

  “I am indeed honoured, Your Grace,” Antonia said in a quiet voice. But the Duke was certain that she winked at him.

  Antonia offered herself for a marriage of convenience to the Duke of Doncaster in place of her reluctant sister, who is in love with another. But on the honeymoon, Athol is wounded in a duel and it is only then that Antonia realizes she loves him.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  While the main characters in this novel are fictitious, the facts regarding the Siege of Paris are all correct. The British Ambassador and the British Consul did leave on September 19th, an action which provoked considerable anger, both at home and among the British left in Paris.

  Balloons carrying dispatches and mail took off at the rate of two or three a week. Sixty-five balloons actually left Paris during the Siege, of which only four fell into enemy hands.

  The Siege dragged on. Early in October Parisians began to eat horseflesh; from mid-November the Zoo provided exotic menus. No animal was exempt.

  A journalist colleague of Henry Labouchere—the details about him are factual—wrote during the first days of January—“I have now dined off camel, antelope, dog, donkey, mule and elephant.”

  There was a notable price difference between ‘brewery’ rats and sewer rats and there were 380 cases of smallpox in January. The final capitulation of Paris to the Prussians took place on January 27th, 1871, but no Prussian troops were to enter Paris for the duration of the armistice which was to last until February 19th.

  The terms were harsh; Paris was to pay an indemnity of two hundred million francs, surrender the perimeter forts to the Prussians, and throw the rampart guns into the moats.

  Henry Labouchere, having lived through the Siege and the terrible aftermath, returned home to British Political life. It was however observed by his friends that the Siege had markedly aged him.

  CHAPTER ONE

  1870

  “I have something very important to say to you!” The Marchioness of Northaw spoke with an intonation in her voice which made the Duke of Doncaster, who was putting the finishing touches to his cravat, pay attention.

  He was looking in the mirror and by moving his head slightly to one side he could see the Marchioness lying against the tumbled pillows of the bed, her naked body as beautiful and iridescent as a pearl.

  With her fair hair falling over her white shoulders she was in fact the most beautiful woman to whom the Duke had ever made love, and without exception the most passionate.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “You will have to be married, Athol!”

  The duke was startled into immobility; then he turned round to say with laughter in his voice:

  “Surely this is hardly an appropriate moment to speak of the holy bonds?”

  “I am serious, Athol, and this is in fact a very appropriate moment.”

  “Are you suggesting that we should be married?” the Duke enquired incredulously.

  “No, of course not!” the Marchioness replied, “although I assure you, Athol, I would like it above all things! But George would never give me a divorce. There has never been a public scandal in the Northaw family.”

  “Then what is worrying you?” the Duke asked.

  There was no doubt she was worried: there was a distinct pucker on the perfection of her oval brow and the blue eyes were clouded with anxiety.

  There was a pause, then the Marchioness said:

  “The Queen knows about us!”

  “That is impossible!”

  “Nothing is impossible where the Queen is concerned, as you well know. There is always some spiteful old woman, doubtless one of your relatives or George’s, to whisper poison in her ears.”

  “What makes you think Her Majesty is suspicious?” the Duke asked slowly.

  “She more or less told me so,” the Marchioness replied.

  The Duke sat down on the end of the bed he had so recently vacated.

  The Marchioness pushed herself up a little higher against the lace-edged pillows, regardless of the fact that the only covering down to her small waist was her long, silken, golden hair.

  She looked, the Duke thought, like the sun rising at dawn, but for the moment her beauty left him cold. He was too concentrated on what she had just told him.

  “It was last night at the Ball,” the Marchioness explained. “When we had finished dancing and I had returned to the dais, the Queen beckoned me. She was smiling and I sat down beside her, thinking she was in a pleasant mood.”

  She paused to say viciously:

  “I should have remembered that when she smiles she is always at her most dangerous!”

  “Go on with what happened,” the Duke ordered.

  Despite the fact that he had not yet put on his coat, he looked exceedingly elegant in his fine lawn shirt, embroidered with his monogram surmounted with a coronet, and with his white collar showing against his grey cravat.

  He was athletically built with square shoulders and narrow hips. As the Marchioness’s eyes rested on him the pucker between her eyes vanished, and as if she could not help herself she put out her hand towards him.

  He ignored it.

  “Go on,” he said, “I want to hear exactly what Her Majesty said.”

  The Marchioness drew in her breath.

  “She said in that ingenuous manner which hides her Machiavellian brain: ‘I think, Marchioness, we must find the Duke of Doncaster a wife!’

  “ ‘A wife, Ma’am?’ I exclaimed.

  “ ‘It is time he was married,’ the Queen said, ‘Handsome unattached Dukes are such a disturbing influence’.”

  The Marchioness made a little gesture.

  “You can realise, Athol, I was too astounded for the moment to be able to reply. There was no mistaking the innuendo in the Queen’s voice. Then she went on: ‘You must use your influence, and of course your tact, Marchioness. They are two qualities I greatly admire and which I always seek in my Ladies of the Bedchamber’.”

  The Marchioness ceased speaking and the Duke was silent too. Then after a moment she continued:

  “You know how much I want to be appointed to the Royal Household! It would be such a snub to all my sour-faced viper-tongued sisters-in-law who have always looked at me down their noses and openly deprecated the fact that George married anyone so young and unimportant.”

  “You will certainly enliven the gloom at Windsor!” the Duke remarked.

  “And Buckingham Palace,” the Marchioness said quickly. “You forget the Queen is now coming to London far more than she used to, and naturally I shall try to persuade her to do so as much as possible.”

  “You really think that in such circumstances we could go on seeing each other?’ the Duke asked.

  “If you were married�
�yes!” the Marchioness answered. “But not otherwise. She would prevent it somehow—you can be certain of that. And I am quite sure she will not appoint me unless you are married or at least engaged.”

  The Duke rose to his feet to walk to the window and look out at the trees in the square outside.

  “So I am to be sacrificed to make a Roman holiday!” he said and there was a sharp note in his voice.

  “You have to marry sometime, Athol. You must have an heir.”

  “I am well aware of that,” the Duke replied, “but there is no hurry.”

  “You are thirty and it is time you settled down,” the Marchioness said.

  “And do you imagine that is what I would do?” he asked.

  Once again there was a note of cynical amusement in his voice.

  “I cannot give you up!” the Marchioness cried. “I cannot! I have never loved anyone as I love you, Athol! As you well know, you excite me as no other man has ever been able to do.”

  “Quite a number have tried!” the Duke remarked.

  “That was because I was so unhappy. George is only interested in Greek urns, ancient history and Italian masters.”

  The Marchioness paused before she said passionately:

  “I want to live to-day. I am not interested in the past nor particularly in the future for that matter. I just want you to go on making love to me, for us to be together as we are now.”

  “I thought we had been so careful,” the Duke said beneath his breath, as if he spoke to himself.

  “How can anyone be careful in London?” the Marchioness asked. “There are servants who talk; there are people on the other side of the Square who watch the carriages stopping outside my door; and there are all those women who look at you with hungry eyes and who loathe me because you are no longer interested in them!”

  The Duke’s lips twisted a little at the corners.

  “You flatter me, Clarice!”

  “It is the truth—you know it is the truth!” the Marchioness retorted. “If I have had a few lovers, it is nothing to the legions of women you have left with broken hearts.”

  The Duke made an irritated sound and walked back to the mirror to continue adjusting his cravat.

  The Marchioness sensed he was annoyed and remembered that he always disliked any reference to his many love-affairs.

  But she told herself she was so sure of him that nothing could disrupt the wild ecstasy they found in each other’s company.

  Never, she told herself, had she known a more passionate or more ardent lover.

  Never had she been more determined that, whatever the Queen might say, whatever the difficulties that lay ahead, she would not give him up.

  “Listen, Athol,” she said now as he stood with his back to her, “I have a solution—the perfect solution to the problem.”

  “If it involves my giving my name to some nit-witted girl, I am not interested.”

  “Oh, Athol, do be sensible! You have to marry sooner or later, and I cannot lose the opportunity of becoming a member of the Royal Household. It will give me an aura of respectability I have never had before!”

  “I would not be surprised if you found it a mill-stone round your neck!” the Duke remarked.

  “It will make everything so easy,” the Marchioness said pleadingly. “We shall be able to see each other not only surreptitiously in London but also in the country.”

  “How do you reason that out?”

  “Because where it has been difficult for you to come to the Hall or for me to visit you at Doncaster Park, there will be a thousand excuses if you have a wife and I am friendly with her.”

  “And you really think my wife would accept you as her friend as well as mine?”

  “Of course she will! Especially the girl I have already chosen for you.”

  The Duke turned round sharply.

  “This is too much, Clarice! If you really think I would allow you to choose my wife, you are very much mistaken!”

  “Do not be so stupid, Athol!” the Marchioness retorted. “You know as well as I do that you never come into contact with young girls. When are you likely even to meet one moving between White’s Club and this house, between Newmarket and Epsom, Ascot or your hunting lodge in Leicestershire?”

  “I must admit there are few debutantes to be found in such surroundings,” the Duke agreed.

  “Then you must leave it to me,” the Marchioness said, “and actually, not only can I provide you with a complacent, well-bred, unobtrusive wife, but also with the extra acres of land that you always wanted at the end of ‘The Chase’ at Doncaster Park.”

  “You mean Lemsford’s land?” the Duke enquired.

  “Exactly! When you marry Felicity Wyndham you ask as her dowry the three hundred or so fine acres of her father’s estate, that adjoins your own.”

  “Really, Clarice, you seem to have it all tied up!” the Duke expostulated. “But may I point out that I have never seen this Wyndham girl? In fact I had no idea that she even existed!”

  “Why should you?” the Marchioness enquired. “But I am well aware that you have always coveted that particular acreage which would make the ground where you exercise your horses, as you have so often said yourself, into a miniature race-course.”

  That was true and the Duke could not gainsay it.

  It had in the past proved a constant irritant that the Earl of Lemsford, his next-door neighbour in Hertfordshire, should own a piece of land which had once been part of his family estate but had been lost at cards by his great-grandfather.

  As if she realised her advantage in the discussion the Marchioness went on:

  “The Earl is, I know, extremely hard up and looking for a rich son-in-law. Felicity Wyndham is very pretty, in fact if you do not compare her with me, outstandingly so!”

  “I imagine by that remark that she is fair-haired and blue-eyed,” the Duke said.

  “Exactly!” the Marchioness agreed. “And what could be more proper for a Duchess? Fair-haired women always show off jewellery so much better than brunettes.”

  She gave a little sigh.

  “Oh, Athol, you must know how much it will hurt me to see another woman at your side and see her glittering with the Doncaster diamonds which are far more magnificent than anything poor George ever possessed!”

  Her lips tightened for a moment before she went on: “But, darling, neither of us can afford a scandal, even if you were prepared to run away with me, which I doubt.”

  “If I asked you, would you come?” the Duke asked with a cynical twist to his lips.

  The Marchioness was still for a moment, then she said: “I have often asked myself that question and I think, if I am truthful, the answer is no. How could I bear to live abroad, to be ostracised and cut by everyone we know? You would be all right. The man always is. It is the woman who suffers in a cause celebre.”

  The Duke knew this was the truth.

  “Well, Clarice,” he said, “you have been very persuasive, but naturally I must have time to think over this extraordinary proposition.”

  “There is no time to think,” the Marchioness said sharply. “You know as well as I do that if there is a vacancy among the Ladies of the Bedchamber, there will be a dozen old harridans manoeuvring for themselves, their daughters, their nieces—or anyone rather than me!”

  “Are you really suggesting,” the Duke asked, “that I should make up my mind on such an important subject now—at this moment?”

  “If you love me you will not hesitate,” the Marchioness said. “But you know, Athol, it would be an inexpressible agony if we have to say good-bye to each other. I do not think I could bear it.”

  There was a break in the soft voice.

  “We could go on as we are now,” the Duke suggested.

  “And do you suppose someone would not tell the Queen?” the Marchioness asked. “How can we meet knowing we are being spied on, that everything we do and perhaps everything we say is repeated back to that old Spider spinning webs in he
r Sitting-Room at Windsor?”

  “All I will promise you,” the Duke said firmly, “is that I will think seriously about it.”

  He took his coat from a chair as he spoke, put it on and pulled it firmly into position over his square shoulders.

  He glanced down at the dressing-table to see if there was anything he had forgotten. Then he walked across the room to where the Marchioness lay watching him from the bed.

  She looked up at him, her eyes very blue against her white skin.

  “I do matter to you?”

  “You know you do,” the Duke replied. “But love is one thing, Clarice, marriage is another!”

  “It is love which counts,” the Marchioness said softly.

  The Duke took her hand and raised it to his lips.

  “Thank you, Clarice, for making me very happy.”

  His lips lingered a moment against the softness of her skin. Then her fingers tightened on his and she drew him towards her.

  “Good-bye, my darling, wonderful, magnificent lover!” she whispered.

  She raised her lips as she spoke towards his.

  Just for a moment he hesitated, then as he bent forward her arms were around his neck pulling him down upon her...

  He tried to resist but it was too late.

  Her lips, wildly passionate, held him captive, and he felt the fire that was never far from the surface rising within him to match the fire which was burning in her.

  He had the feeling that he was surrendering himself not only to her violent exotic desire but also at the same time to the loss of his freedom.

  But for the moment it was not important!

  The Earl of Lemsford slit open the letters which lay beside his place at the breakfast table one by one.

  The Butler had provided him with a silver letter-opener engraved with the Lemsford coat of arms.

  That it needed cleaning passed unnoticed by the Countess who, seated at the other end of the table, was admonishing her daughter Felicity for having torn her gown the night before.

  “I cannot think why you are not more careful, Felicity. If you danced the waltz more sedately these accidents would not happen.”