Almost a Bride Page 7

  What did she have to lose? Arabella thought. She had to remain at Lacey Court until she had an answer from Cornwall, or at least it would be convenient to do so. And the duke of St. Jules just might prove to be an interesting and informative companion. He was urbane, sophisticated, and she guessed well versed in the political and social scene and she often felt starved of information about the world outside her oasis among the orchards of Kent. She gleaned what she could from those of her neighbors who made occasional forays to Town and brought back newspapers and periodicals, but they were always out-of-date. Frederick had been no help either. He had had no interest in politics and even less in answering his sister’s questions.

  “Did you say you were a Whig?” she asked casually, reaching for a roll from the basket on the table.

  He looked up with a slightly amused air at this apparent non sequitur. “Yes.”

  She nodded. “Are you a friend of the Prince of Wales, then?”

  “As it happens.” He pushed his plate aside and took up his wineglass again.

  “So, the king does not look upon you with a kindly eye,” Arabella observed, nibbling a crust of bread.

  “No,” he agreed, regarding her over the lip of his glass with the same air of amusement.

  “Nor Queen Charlotte,” she said. “I heard that she now excludes ardent Whig supporters from her Drawing Rooms.”

  He nodded. “Shortsighted of her, but both she and her husband see little beyond their own royal prerogatives.” A slight frown between his brows replaced the hint of amusement in the gray gaze. “Is there a point to this political discussion, Arabella?”

  “Ring your bell,” she said. “Mrs. Elliot will be anxious to bring in the next cover. No, there’s no particular point, but it occurs to me that you could satisfy my curiosity about political issues. It seems a fair exchange for my satisfying yours about the estate.”

  It seemed they’d reached a tacit understanding, Jack reflected. Politics wouldn’t have been his subject of choice, but he wouldn’t quibble. “Fair exchange,” he agreed, ringing his bell obediently.

  Franklin removed the dishes and brought a basket of cheese tartlets and a lemon syllabub. “Mrs. Elliot apologizes for the lack of variety, your grace. Had she had more notice of your grace’s arrival . . .” He bowed.

  “This is more than ample,” Jack said. “Pray thank Mrs. Elliot for her efforts. I do appreciate them.” He gestured towards Arabella. “Another plate for Lady Arabella, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you,” Arabella said, brushing bread crumbs to one side as if she didn’t know how they’d appeared in front of her.

  Jack inclined his head in acknowledgment and took a cheese tartlet. “So, my dear, in the interest of your political education I foresee many a pleasant dinner.”

  “I’m sure we’ll have much to discuss,” Arabella said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I do have some business to attend to.” She laid a hand on the table to push back her chair, and this time he made no attempt to stop her.

  “I was hoping we might play a game of backgammon, or even have a hand of piquet?” he suggested.

  Arabella stared at him in astonishment, then she laughed, and there was no humor in it. “My dear sir, you do not imagine I would pick up a card in a game or throw a die with the man who somehow persuaded my brother to gamble away his life and his fortune.”

  Jack’s countenance darkened. His voice was very quiet as he said, “Make no mistake, Arabella, your brother did what he did with his eyes open. He knew what he was risking . . . and why.” The last was almost sotto voce and Arabella wasn’t sure she had heard him properly. But she was sure that she didn’t want to ask any more questions of Jack Fortescu. His eyes were blank, empty pools as he sat motionless, and she was suddenly horribly reminded of a specter, a mere shroud of menace that one could look right through.

  She wanted to get up, walk away from the table, out of the room, and yet for as long as he sat there withdrawn from her but still a grim presence in the soft candlelight, she couldn’t manage to move a muscle.

  Jack gazed at the image of Charlotte as he’d last seen her, on the morning of that last day. He heard her singing. She had loved to sing in a light treble that had always reminded him of birdsong. Then his eyes focused abruptly, taking in the flicker of candles, the golden pools of light on the richly polished surface of the table, the ruby wine in the cut-glass goblet he held between finger and thumb. He looked at the woman beside him.

  Her golden eyes held a startled question, but it was not one he either could or would answer.

  Arabella, as if loosed from a spell, pushed back her chair. “I bid you good night, sir.”

  He didn’t try to stop her this time. Instead he rose too and escorted her to the door. He put his hand on the door latch but made no attempt to lift it immediately. With his free hand he lifted hers to his lips, his eyes holding hers as his mouth brushed her knuckles. There was no trace of that menacing stranger now. Then he leaned in towards her and moved his mouth to the corner of hers in a light, fleeting kiss. When he straightened, still holding her hand, he smiled down into her startled still-upturned countenance. Indignation quickly replaced her initial surprise and confusion and the golden eyes burned.

  He forestalled the angry words forming on her lips. “I find it hard to believe that in your eight and twenty years you’ve never been kissed before, Arabella,” he said, the smile still in his eyes but mixed with a slight question.

  “Never without my permission before,” she retorted. “Who do you think you are? You may now be master of this house, your grace, but that does not give you droit de seigneur. Please move aside and let me pass.”

  He laughed and raised the latch, throwing open the door with a flourish. She swept past him, ignoring his farewell bow. “Good night, Arabella,” he called softly. “I look forward to tomorrow.”

  She turned, one foot on the bottom stair. “Curiously, sir, I do not.” And on that rather unsatisfactory rejoinder she marched upstairs.

  Much to Arabella’s surprise she slept a dreamless, untroubled sleep and awoke at her usual hour in the fresh-washed light of early morning, when the dogs, deciding it was time to put on the day, nudged wet noses against her bare forearm.

  “All right, all right,” she mumbled through a deep yawn, and sat up. The dogs padded expectantly to the bedroom door and she swung out of bed to open it for them. They would appear in the kitchen, someone would let them out, and Becky, knowing her mistress was awake, would bring up hot chocolate and hot water. Arabella’s well-established morning routine.

  She climbed back into bed, propping herself up against pillows, and thought of all the other familiar routines. Her mornings in the hothouse, her afternoon rides with the dogs, Thursday morning meetings with Peter Bailey, her friends—Meg . . . oh, she would miss Meg. They were as close as sisters, maybe even closer. Her life, her future, now seemed to her like a jigsaw puzzle that someone had picked up and dropped and there were pieces missing, so that it could never again be reconstituted to make the same picture.

  Becky knocked and came in with a tray. “Mornin’, m’lady,” she said cheerfully, setting the tray on the nightstand. “Looks like another hot one. Shall I pour?” She picked up the silver pot.

  “Yes, please, Becky.” Arabella took the shallow Delftware cup filled with fragrant chocolate as the maid handed it to her. “I’m going to walk over to the Barratts’ this morning, so would you put out the striped Indian muslin?”

  “The orange and brown one, ma’am?” Becky opened the armoire.

  “Yes, it’s light and cool.” Arabella sipped chocolate, planning her day and in particular how best to avoid her housemate. If she spent the morning at the Barratts’, she could exercise the dogs on the walk there and back, so there would be no need to ride this afternoon and she could spend that time in the hothouse. No one in their right mind, not even someone as stubbornly determined as the duke, would want to swelter in a hothouse all afternoon just to impose
his company upon her. And that would just leave dinner. Well, she could manage to spend a civilized meal in his company once a day as they’d agreed. As long as he kept his distance, she added to herself with a grimace.

  “Something the matter, Lady Arabella?” Becky looked concerned as she saw Arabella’s expression. “Is it the toothache?” Becky had recently suffered a bout of toothache and could imagine nothing worse.

  “No, not at all, Becky.” Arabella forced a cheery smile. “I was just thinking about something I have to do that I don’t really want to.”

  Becky shook out the folds of striped muslin with a critical frown. “I’ll just pass the iron over this, ma’am. Seems a bit creased.”

  “Oh, there’s no need,” Arabella said carelessly. “I’m going to be walking across the fields and it’s bound to get dusty and creased in the heat anyway.”

  “Well, I don’t know, m’lady,” Becky said doubtfully. “At least if you start out looking pressed . . .”

  Arabella was about to dismiss this nicety with a laugh, but then she thought about the duke. Always so immaculate, his lace so dazzlingly white, so starched and pressed, even after riding, even when standing in the broiling heat of the hothouse. Never a hair out of place. While yesterday she had looked as limp and disheveled as a neglected rag doll left out in the rain. It was no wonder, really, that he had been so overly familiar. He’d treated her with all the insulting familiarity he might accord a dairymaid. She had no wish to run into him before this evening, but if she did she’d rather not be at a disadvantage again.

  Yet another major inconvenience of sharing this roof, she reflected, pushing back the bedclothes with an energetic kick of her legs. She could no longer dress as she pleased. “Very well, Becky, press it if you think it needs it.” She pulled her nightgown over her head and went to the washstand.

  Her hair could do with a wash, she decided, examining herself in the mirror behind the ewer. “Becky, I’ll take a bath before dinner this afternoon. Would you make sure there’s plenty of hot water?”

  Becky, frowning as she pressed the flatiron into the muslin, murmured an assent.

  “And lemon juice to rinse my hair,” Arabella continued, wringing out the sponge against her breasts.

  “Aye, m’lady. And lavender and rosewater for the bath,” Becky said, holding up the gown and subjecting it to close scrutiny before laying it carefully over a chair.

  “Perfect.” Arabella dropped her shift over her head.

  “Will you wear stays, m’lady?” Becky proffered the stiffened whalebone garment.

  “In this heat?” Arabella exclaimed, stepping into a cambric petticoat. Becky replaced the stays in the linen chest and offered cotton stockings. These too were rejected with a quick head-shake and were returned to the linen chest. Becky picked up the Indian muslin. The skirts of the gown were stiffened with tarlatan, which gave the dress a degree of formality even without the hourglass shape imposed by stays, and Arabella after a swift glance in the long mirror decided she had sacrificed enough comfort in the interest of sartorial propriety for one day.

  “Shall I do your hair, m’lady?” Becky picked up the silver hairbrush.

  “No, I’ll do it,” Arabella said, taking the brush from the maid. “I’ll have my breakfast in the parlor in five minutes.”

  “Very well, ma’am.” Becky hurried off and Arabella sat down at the dresser. After a couple of cursory swipes at the dusky mass of curls, she twisted the whole lot into a knot on top of her head that left the nape of her neck bare to catch any refreshing breezes the day might bring. She slipped her feet into a pair of leather sandals that were practical for walking across fields although somewhat incongruous with the gown—but then, so were bare legs. Her appearance would satisfy any swift appraisal and as such it would have to do.

  She broke her fast in the parlor that adjoined her bedchamber. It was her sanctum and had been from the time she’d left the realm of nursery and schoolroom. The books were her own favorites . . . those she could take with her to whatever awaited her in the new life; the orchids on the windowsills were most definitely her own, as were the two watercolors of Venice. Meg had brought those back for her after her adventure.

  Arabella grinned to herself as she slathered butter on bread and cut a slice of ham. She had been astounded by Meg’s indiscretion. For all her quick wit and liveliness of mind, Meg had always given the impression of being law-abiding and conventional, her fiery red hair belying the seeming evenness of her temper. Of the two friends, it was Arabella who was considered to be the loose cannon, the one who refused to conform. But then Meg had fallen in love with a gondolier who played the mandolin.

  She had been brought back in haste and tears from the delights of the Grand Canal and only Arabella knew that those delights had actually encompassed rather more than a star-filled Venetian sky and the mellifluous tones of a handsome gondolier. The gondolier had offered a great deal more in the way of love than his serenades. Fortunately Lord and Lady Barratt knew only that their daughter had had an understandable but foolish infatuation to which they had promptly but with their customary kindness put an end. Staid, comfortable country folk that they were, they could never have imagined in their worst nightmares their only child’s brief and passionate liaison. Fortunately the indiscretion had produced no ill consequences and only Arabella recognized that the old Meg had vanished forever.

  And only Meg could give Arabella an unbiased, honest opinion on the present situation. And Meg would put that ridiculous kiss into perspective.

  Arabella drained the last drop of tea from her cup. It was still early but the Barratt household would have been up and about long since, and it was a good forty-five-minute walk cross-country. She could ride it in half the time, but she was in the mood to walk.

  Jack had woken just before dawn. A milky light washed the chamber and he pushed aside the covers almost as his eyes opened. He went to the open casement and looked out at the garden still bathed in moonlight. In half an hour the stars would begin to fade, but for the moment the world, or at least this little part of it, was locked in sleep. If he were in London, he would probably be playing the last hand of the night amid the smoke and the reek of spilled wine and the lurchings of drunken gamblers too far gone to make a decent play. The city streets would steam with ordure and would be alive with the swift slithering menace of the underworld. Here there was a moon-washed garden, a slight freshening of the air, the hoot of an owl, and total peace.

  The land of Charlotte’s birthplace, the land she had loved so deeply. But the silence, the absence of action, of the need for action, made him restless. He had a very limited tolerance for the bucolic. He dressed in shirt and britches and silently let himself out of the house through the kitchen door. The stable clock showed four-thirty as he crossed the yard and made for the paddock that led down to the river that ran along the boundary of Lacey Court. He would have enjoyed the company of the dogs but they were nowhere to be seen. Somehow Jack doubted they were made to bed down in the stables; they were probably curled up at the foot of Arabella’s bed.

  Arabella. Prickly, difficult, stubborn, self-willed. But most interesting. Charlotte had had spirit, a mind of her own, but she had still obeyed convention. She had made the dutiful marriage, and as dutifully taken her place at the French Court. Lilly was the embodiment of convention. While she shaped her world according to her own wishes, she always made sure that no breath of scandal attached to her. She maintained a complaisant but dull husband, while entertaining a lover who satisfied her desire for the excitement of the unconventional. Jack enjoyed her. They enjoyed each other. It was an arrangement he would be loath to disrupt. But then, he had no intention of disrupting it, marriage notwithstanding.

  He paused beside the river. He’d been walking for close to an hour and the sun was a hint on the eastern horizon. He could just make out a speckled trout as it lay still in the shadow of a flat stone. There were some bucolic pleasures he enjoyed and he wished that he had t
hought to bring a rod. Dawn was the best time for fishing.

  Frederick Dunston would have rods. And guns. He would have fished and hunted. But Jack knew he would never be able to fish with Dunston’s rods or shoot game with his guns. Jack’s enjoyment of the man’s personal possessions had not been part of the price the earl paid for Charlotte’s death.

  But Dunston’s sister? Yes, she was part of the price. Jack turned to retrace his steps along the riverbank. She would bring him the last coin of vengeance, but she would also be a wife, dependent upon her benefactor, the husband who, by saving her from penury, had saddled her with a debt she could never repay. He had thought it a neat irony, her freedom in exchange for Charlotte’s, but now he was not so sure.

  Jack approached the house now bathed in the soft glow of the rising sun, reflecting on the one unexpected problem in his tidy plan. The putative wife appeared disinclined to accept dependence or benefactors.

  Arabella whistled to the dogs as she hurried down the stairs, intent on her walk to the Barratts’. Oscar and Boris appeared instantly, paws skittering on the polished floor in their haste. They dripped milk from their whiskers. They were perennial favorites in the kitchen and knew exactly how to plead. Arabella had long given up laying down rules for the proper care and feeding of two adorable red setters. The occasional bowl of milk would do them no harm and they had enough exercise to absorb most indiscretions.

  “Barratts,” she said to them as she opened the front door. They waved feathery tails and ran ahead of her down the steps. Their dam resided at the Barratts’, and several of their siblings. Barratts’ was a good destination for an early morning.

  “I give you good morning, Arabella.”

  The melodious greeting brought her to a stop on the bottom step. She turned slowly. What was he doing up and about this early? He was a city dweller. He should be going to bed at this hour, not appearing to disconcert her, all shining and combed and urbane in black velvet and silver lace, his attire perfect in every detail, right down to the sheathed rapier at his side.