Almost a Bride Read online

  “I don’t believe we are acquainted, sir,” she said with a touch of hauteur. She inclined her head to one side in questioning fashion, uncomfortably aware that beads of perspiration had gathered on her forehead, and her hair was sticking in limp strands to her scalp in the humid heat of the conservatory.

  Her visitor swept her an elegant bow, the black velvet skirts of his coat flaring. “Jack Fortescu, at your service, my lady.” He rose and extended his hand in greeting.

  Arabella glanced involuntarily at her own. She despised wearing gloves for gardening and there was dirt beneath her fingernails. She ignored the proffered hand and curtsied, wishing that she was wearing something other than a threadbare muslin gown, so faded that it’s original color was a mere memory. She felt at considerable disadvantage in the presence of this immaculately groomed stranger and it did little for her peace of mind. But the name rang a bell.

  “His grace of St. Jules?” she queried.

  “The very same, madam.” He bowed again, and picked up the dropped secateurs, setting them down on a trestle table.

  “I’m afraid my brother is not here at present,” she said. “You will find him in London, I believe.”

  He appeared to have no interest in the information, merely observed, “The orchids are lovely.”

  “They are something of a hobby of mine,” she replied. If he wasn’t going to come to the point of this sudden appearance, she was damned if she was going to show any curiosity. She clicked her fingers at the dogs, who rather reluctantly, she thought, left the duke’s side and came over to her, sitting obediently against her legs.

  “Beautiful dogs,” he said.

  “Yes,” she agreed. She brushed a sticky strand of hair from her forehead and knew that her face was unbecomingly flushed with the heat.

  “Perhaps we could go somewhere a little cooler,” he suggested with a solicitous air. “You seem a little . . . um . . . overheated, if you’ll forgive my saying so.”

  “I’ve been working in a hothouse on a broiling day in mid-August,” she pointed out with a snap. He didn’t seem to have a hair out of place and his ruffles were still as crisp as if they’d just been under the gauffering iron, although he was standing directly beneath the point in the glass roof where the sun blazed down.

  He inclined his head and stepped back to the door, opening it for her with an inviting gesture. Arabella swept past him, catching the scent of laundered linen and lavender. She was probably rank as a groom, she reflected, giving an involuntary sigh of relief at the relative cool of the stone-flagged hallway. The dogs flung themselves down on the flags with breathy sighs.

  “My lady, is everything as it should be?” Her steward emerged from the shadows, looking a little worried. “I explained to his grace that Lord Dunston was absent and that you were occupied, but . . .” He let the rest of the sentence fade but it was clear that the duke of St. Jules had not given him the opportunity to follow correct procedure.

  “I’m not quite sure what the situation is, to be honest, Franklin,” she said, looking at her visitor. “Perhaps you would take his grace to the drawing room. I’m sure he’d appreciate a tankard of ale in this heat and I should like a jug of lemonade . . . If you’ll excuse me, my lord duke, I’ll join you in a few minutes.” She hesitated, then said, “Unless, of course, you wish to discharge your errand immediately? I assume there is some purpose behind your delightful visit? Perhaps it is a very brief purpose.”

  An appreciative smile touched his mouth and glimmered for an instant in his eyes. The challenge in her voice was unmistakable. “I’m afraid it’s not quickly discharged, my lady,” he said. “I will await you.”

  She frowned, puzzled, intrigued, and aware of an unmistakable sense of foreboding. Then, with a tiny shrug, she snapped her fingers at the dogs, turned, and took the back stairs to her bedchamber, Boris and Oscar on her heels. “Bring me hot water, please, Becky,” she asked as she walked in, pulling at the limp ribbon in her hair. “My hands are filthy and I have a visitor.”

  “Oh, yes, m’lady, we all knows that,” her maid said with unconcealed curiosity. “Is it some message from my lord, do you think?”

  “I assume so,” Arabella said absently, going to the dresser mirror. “I have heard my brother talk of the duke.” She peered at her reflection gloomily. It was even worse than she’d imagined. Her face was streaked with dirt and sweat and her hair was a tangled mop.

  “Hurry with the water, Becky . . . but first, unbutton me.” She gave the maid her back and the girl’s nimble fingers flew over the buttons. “Thank you . . . now the water.” She sat in her petticoat and picked up her hairbrush, pulling it through the mass of dark brown curls. A deep frown drew her brows together. It was true that Frederick had mentioned Jack Fortescu, Duke of St. Jules, on more than one occasion, but always with dislike. But then, she reflected, there weren’t too many people her half brother actually did like, and from what she had gathered on her one sortie into London Society, his feelings were generally reciprocated. She didn’t like him herself, truth be told. He was weak and spiteful at best and he had certainly done little to encourage any sisterly feeling in her.

  But just what was St. Jules doing at Lacey Court, thirty miles from London, amidst the cherry orchards of Kent?

  Becky returned with a copper jug of hot water and poured it into the basin. Arabella washed her face, sponged her arms and neck, and took a nailbrush to her hands. “Fetch me the apple-green morning gown . . . the Indian silk, please, Becky. It’s too hot for corsets and panniers.” And her visitor, elegant though he was in his black velvet coat and britches, was not dressed and powdered or bewigged for a formal morning visit.

  “My hair’s impossible this morning,” she lamented as she struggled with the curls. “The damp in the conservatory has made it all frizzy.”

  “Oh, let me do that, m’lady.” Becky took the brush and deftly manipulated the long, dark, curling tresses into ringlets that clustered around her face. “If you wear that pretty French cap, it will be perfect,” she declared, pinning the white, lace-edged cap to the top of her mistress’s head. “There.” She stood back to admire her handiwork.

  “You are a miracle worker, Becky,” Arabella declared. She stood up and stepped into the simple silk morning gown that the maid now held for her. “A little splash of rosewater, I think.” She dabbed the light fragrance onto the inside of her wrists and elbows and behind her ears. She wasn’t sure why she was going to so much trouble for this unexpected visitor, but she couldn’t rid herself of that sense of foreboding and it seemed vital that she wasn’t at any kind of a disadvantage for the upcoming interview.

  She went back downstairs, aware that she’d left her visitor to his own devices for more than half an hour. The red setters’ toenails clicked on the waxed floorboards as they followed her. Franklin was hovering in the front hall as she descended the Elizabethan staircase.

  “His grace is in the library, my lady. He preferred it to the drawing room.”

  Arabella raised her eyebrows. “Has he examined all the rooms down here, Franklin?”

  “He did look in one or two of the receiving rooms, my lady.” The steward sounded both helpless and apologetic.

  Arabella frowned. Visitors didn’t in general reject a host’s directions and roam the house in search of a venue they preferred. In fact, it was both rude and impertinent and she began to wonder just what kind of a man she was harboring under her roof. It deepened her sense of foreboding. “Did you bring him ale?”

  “He asked for burgundy, madam. I took the decanter in a while ago. And a jug of lemonade for you.”

  Arabella nodded and crossed the hall to the library. It was a much smaller room than the grand drawing room, darker and more intimate, smelling of books and old leather and beeswax.

  His grace of St. Jules was standing at the window overlooking the side garden, a glass of wine in his hand. His tricorne hat and riding crop lay carelessly across the seat of a chair and she noticed for the
first time the slender rapier that hung sheathed at his side. It was not a dress sword, it was made for business. A little shiver prickled her spine.

  He turned as she came in, the dogs bounding ahead of her. “Does your orchid hobby extend to gardening in general?”

  She closed the door quietly behind her. “Yes,” she responded.

  “It’s clear that someone has an eye for landscaping,” he offered with a smile, leaving the window to take an armless chair beside the empty grate. “The rock garden is magnificent.”

  “Thank you,” she said simply, pouring herself a glass of lemonade from the jug on a little gilt table. “How do you find the wine?”

  “A fine vintage,” he said. “Your brother kept a good cellar.”

  Her hand paused in the act of lifting the glass to her lips. “Kept?”

  He regarded her for a moment before saying quietly, “I’m afraid I am the bearer of bad news, Lady Arabella.”

  She didn’t say anything immediately. She set her lemonade untasted on the table and unconsciously crossed her arms, clasping her elbows, her eyes gazing into the middle distance.

  Jack waited, watching her as she absorbed the implications. He caught himself observing that the ringlets that framed her face were the rich, sumptuous color of chocolate, and her eyes were a rather fascinating tawny color. He couldn’t decide whether they were more gold than brown. Her complexion was the color of thick cream. But despite the appealing color scheme, she was not in any conventional sense either beautiful or pretty, or even handsome. She was well past the age of discretion, for a start. Her face was too strong, too uncompromising, dominated by high cheekbones, a firm square jaw, and a straight aquiline nose. Her dark eyebrows were thicker than prevailing fashion demanded, but her mouth was full, with a long upper lip tip-tilted at the corners.

  Finally she let her hands drop from her elbows and her arms fell to her sides. “How did he die?”

  The directness of the question surprised him at first, and then he realized it shouldn’t have. She didn’t strike him as a woman who would avoid unpleasantness or beat about the bush. “By his own hand,” he replied, keeping his tone even.

  Her gaze snapped into focus. She was not shocked by the fact of Frederick’s untimely death. It had always seemed an inevitable consequence eventually of his predilection for debauchery and for the kinds of people who formed his social circle, such as it was. She’d seen how violent they could become in drink, and they were rarely sober. He could have died of drink or as the result of a violent and fatal encounter and she would not have been surprised. But suicide? She would never have believed her half brother capable of that.

  “Why?” She asked the question almost as much of herself as of her visitor.

  “He lost everything at the tables.”

  “Everything?” She sucked in her lower lip.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Her nostrils flared slightly and she touched her mouth with her fingertips. That would explain such a death. She knew her brother. Frederick could probably have lived dishonored but he could not have faced a world of poverty. She looked for pity in her heart and for the moment failed to find it as she contemplated the grimness of her own future. Frederick would not, of course, have broken the habit of a lifetime and given his half sister even a passing thought.

  Bleakly she surveyed the messenger of doom. His countenance was without expression but the gray eyes were sharply watchful as they rested on her. Why was this man bringing her the news? He’d never been a friend or even an associate of Frederick’s. But of course it was obvious. She said, “I’m assuming that Frederick was the loser, and you, your grace, were the winner.”

  “An accurate assumption.” He reached into his coat and drew out the document that her brother had drawn up at the faro table. He rose from the chair and handed it to her.

  Arabella took it and turned away from him as she unfolded it. She read it in silence, then folded it, turned again, and handed it back. “My congratulations, your grace,” she said without expression. “When would you like me to leave my home?”

  He slipped the document back inside his coat and said calmly, “Curiously enough, my dear, I didn’t come here to dispossess you. I came to offer you my protection.”

  A faintly incredulous smile curled her lips and her voice dripped contempt. “A carte blanche, your grace . . . how very kind of you. But I’m afraid I must decline your so generous offer.”

  He held up an arresting hand and shook his head. “Don’t jump to conclusions, Lady Arabella. I already have a mistress, a most satisfactory one, and I neither want nor need another. I am, however, in need of a wife.”

  Chapter 2

  Arabella laughed. It was a spontaneous peal of genuine amusement that surprised her almost as much as it surprised the duke. He stared at her as he sought for words. He was rarely nonplussed but this was one of those occasions.

  Arabella finally stopped laughing, sobering abruptly as she realized that there’d been a slightly hysterical quality to her hilarity. “You have an extraordinary sense of humor, my lord duke. And, if I may say so, a most inappropriate one . . . to bring news of my brother’s death in one breath and to make a jesting offer of marriage in the next. Extraordinary.” She shook her head in disbelief.

  “It was no jest,” he stated stiffly.

  Now it was Arabella’s turn to stare. “You cannot be in earnest. By your own admission, you drove my brother to his death, and now you would propose marriage to me?”

  Jack took a sip of wine, regaining his composure as he considered his answer. “Consider my offer as a form of recompense,” he said at last, his tone calm and reasoned. “I was certainly instrumental in depriving you of your brother’s protection, therefore I am offering you mine. All aboveboard—a marriage of convenience, of course, but a perfectly conventional and respectable proposal. I suggest you consider its advantages before you laugh it out of court.”

  This time she did not laugh. Anger instead flared in her eyes and her mouth tightened. The dogs, who had been sprawled on the carpet, got up instantly, heads cocked as they regarded the duke with wary eyes. Arabella laid calming hands on their heads. She spoke with icy sarcasm. “How considerate of you, sir. You must, however, forgive me if I fail to see the advantages of marriage to a complete stranger, one capable of driving a man to suicide in order to possess himself of his fortune. You should also understand that I am not such a pathetic creature as to require any form of protection from any member of the male sex. That may come as a surprise to you, my lord, but there are some women who are quite able to rely on their own resources.” She brushed her hands together in an unconscious gesture of finality.

  The duke merely sipped his wine and looked at her in thoughtful and somehow confident silence, as if, she thought, he believed she would inevitably reconsider and regret her words, and he was being considerate enough to give her time to take them back after more mature reflection. His heavy eyelids gave him the appearance of indolence, if one ignored the sharpness of the gray eyes beneath, and there was something unsettling, something that hinted of danger, in the contrast between his ebony eyebrows and the single, thick swatch of white hair that swept back from his broad forehead.

  “It will take me an hour to make arrangements for my departure,” she said in the same frigid tones as before. “I will not be able to move all of my possessions out today, but I’ll have Franklin store them in the attics and as soon as I’ve settled my affairs I’ll send for them. I trust that will be satisfactory, your grace.”

  “No,” he said, “not in the least satisfactory.” He turned aside to the decanter and refilled his glass. “I have no intention of throwing you out of your home. You’re welcome to remain as long as you choose.”

  She frowned. “I don’t understand. Are you saying you would let me stay here?”

  He turned back to her, his expression transformed by a smile in the gray eyes. There was nothing remotely sinister now in the white streak and the b
lack eyebrows. “Certainly. I’m not such an ogre as you think me, Lady Arabella.”

  There was something infectious about that smile and Arabella found her own face softening in response. Surely she hadn’t misjudged him. He’d admitted what he’d done, and whatever lack of feeling she might have had for Frederick, he had been her half brother. This man could not know the state of indifference bordering on open hostility that had existed between herself and Frederick, yet his recounting of her brother’s death had been perfunctory at best, callous at worst. He had not spared a thought for her feelings. Still, that smile seemed to hint at some other pleasanter aspect to the man.

  She opted for neutrality. “Forgive me if I seemed discourteous, Duke. Your news came as something of a shock. But I must thank you for your offer.”

  He bowed. “The pleasure will be mine, madam.” He reached for her hand and carried it to his lips, his mouth lightly brushing the skin. It was not de rigueur for a man’s lips to touch the skin on such short acquaintance—a mere air brush of his lips in the vague direction of her knuckles was all that was necessary—but Arabella decided that now was not the moment to be a stickler for proprieties. If he was prepared to let her remain in the house until she had time to make proper arrangements for her departure, it would be sensible to stay on the right side of him.

  “Let me offer you something to eat before you return to London,” she said, taking back her hand as he released her fingertips. “It’s close to midday, you must have made an early start this morning.”

  “I left at dawn,” he said easily. “But I’m not returning to London, madam.”