My Savage Lord (Hidden Identity)

by Colleen French

  Jillian had little choice but to take his arm and allow him to lead her down the dark hallway and up the monstrous, curving grand staircase. Beatrice hurried behind.

  Despite the poor condition of the exterior of Breckenridge House and the poor upkeep of the hallways, Jillian found her apartments satisfactory. The dark walnut furniture was old and heavy with massive legs, but adequate. Though the wall paint was dingy, the bed-linens and draperies had been cleaned and the room well aired. To Jillian's surprise, there were vases of garden flowers here and there about the bedchamber, filling the otherwise dull room with color and sweet fragrance.

  "This will be your bedchamber. Your sister can sleep in the small room through those doors." He indicated to the left with a sweep of his hand. "But do let me show you the other rooms."

  "That won't be necessary." Just inside the doorway, Jillian halted. She had no intention of permitting Algernon inside, despite his pressing her. "My sister and I are fatigued. It's been a dreadfully long day." She stepped back to allow a footman and Duncan's servant, Atar, to carry her and her sister's trunks inside. "There'll be plenty of time for exploration on the morrow."

  The men left the luggage beside the massive walnut bed and made a fast exit.

  Jillian stood with her hand on the doorknob. "So good night to you and thank you. No doubt we shall see you tomorrow, Mr. Roderick."

  "No doubt." Algernon smiled, clearly annoyed that he hadn't been invited in. "Good night then." He bowed. "Your servant, madame."

  She dipped a hasty curtsy. "Your servant, sir." She closed the door and leaned against it with a sigh. She eyed her sister, not wanting to speak of the cousin for fear he was still behind the door. She rolled her eyes dramatically.

  But Beatrice had walked to the far side of the room and was staring at the dark glass of one window. "At least there are no bars," she said softly.

  Always one to make the best of a situation, Jillian shrugged, tossing her gloves and reticule onto the bed as she passed it. "Creepy, isn't it? But it could be fun investigating the household. Perhaps the earl has some relative walled up in the cellar."

  The look on Beatrice's face made Jillian regret what she had said. "Oh, I'm sorry. I was just teasing." She looped her arm around her sister's waist and gave her a hug. "You must be tired. Let's find your bed and get you settled in for the night."

  With a nod, Beatrice allowed Jillian to lead her into the adjoining chamber. The room must have been meant for a personal maid because it was much smaller than Jillian's bedchamber, but it was acceptable with a rope bed and clean linens.

  Though used to having maids to aid them, Jillian and Beatrice managed to undress and redress in nightclothes. An hour later, Beatrice was asleep in her bed and Jillian was left alone.

  Jillian climbed into the poster bed that was to be her own and pulled a soft linen sheet over her thin, silk sleeping gown. Suddenly she felt alone and just a little frightened. She had been fine as long as she had been caring for Bea; but left alone to think, she came face to face with the reality of her situation.

  Jillian didn't want to be here. She didn't want to marry the earl. She knotted the bed-linen in her fist in frustration. She wanted to marry Jacob! Jacob, dear Jacob. He didn't even know where she was now. She would have to get a letter to him.

  A sudden knock at the door startled Jillian. Heavens, was it that Algernon again? Before she had time to respond, the door swung open.

  Instinctively, Jillian pushed back against her pillow, raising the sheet higher over her sleeping gown. Then she relaxed. The bedchamber was dim, lit only by a few candles, but even in the darkness she could see it was the earl and not his cousin.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he bellowed.

  Jillian had had perfect intentions to treat Duncan sweetly the next time she encountered him. After all, couldn't a man be better manipulated with honey than venom? But all thought of lady-like behavior was gone from her head the moment she heard his tone of voice.

  "What the hell am I doing?" She threw back the coverlet and slid her bare feet over the side of the bed. "What the hell are you doing?"

  Four

  Jillian padded barefoot across the bedchamber floor. "You insisted that I come here immediately, and then you're not here to receive me. You told my father I would be well chaperoned. There's no chaperone! There's no one but a few servants—" She swayed her head. "—and dear cousin Algernon."

  "I didn't think it necessary that I be here to receive you. My man Atar was to see to your needs. As for your chaperone, my grandmother took ill with the summer ague and turned in early. She wanted to stay up and wait for you, but I insisted you were a woman capable of seeing herself in. Now—" He held up his index finger. "—tell me why you brought her with you."

  Jillian lifted a feathery eyebrow. "Whom?"

  "I am not in the mood for gaming. You know very well of whom I speak. Your sister."

  He was dressed casually now. He appeared as if he had settled in his apartment for the evening, then been roused by some well-intentioned servant. Or perhaps it was Cousin Algernon who had tattled on her.

  Gone were Duncan's sword and sword case, as well as the coat and feathered cavalier's hat. He wore a pair of dark breeches and a soft white shirt with long, full sleeves. The fashionable heeled slippers had been replaced with black, knee-high boots. Even his periwig had been removed so that she could see his hair, a rich chestnut brown pulled back in a Colonial queue. The purple scarf looked as if it had been added as an afterthought, set slightly askew so that she could see his entire, sensuous mouth.

  Jillian crossed her arms over her breasts, realizing the sleeping gown she wore was inappropriate to receive in. She was suddenly uncomfortable, with him standing there, so frighteningly attractive, and her nearly unclothed. "You—you said I could bring a woman with me."

  "A maid."

  "I brought my sister."

  "A maid." He shook his fist. "I said you could bring your own personal maid. I did not say—"

  Jillian brought her finger to her lips as if scolding a small child. "I beg you, sir, lower your voice or she'll hear you." Her eyes narrowed. "Haven't you harmed her enough for one day?"

  "And you don't think it will hurt her seeing the two of us together? Blast it, Jillian! I will not have the woman I was supposed to marry moping about my household whilst I try to woo my wife!"

  "I want my sister here." Jillian set her jaw. "You made me come here against my will. You and Father are trying to marry me against my will. I should at least be able to have my sister with me for comfort."

  "She goes home tomorrow come first light."

  Jillian stared at the man's veiled face. "No."

  "You should have asked me. This is my house. You will be my wife. You should have gained my permission to bring her here."

  Jillian lowered her antagonistic gaze. This was not the way to get what she wanted from him. She couldn't meet every word he spoke with a challenge. He now had complete control over her life. She knew it; he knew it. If she expected him to give in a little, she knew she would have to do the same. "Please," she said softly. "I beg you, my lord, don't send my sister away."

  There was an awkward silence in the dark bedchamber. Jillian could hear his breathing, the rhythm increased by their argument. Surely he must have heard her own heart pounding. Despite what she pretended, she was afraid of him and his raw masculinity. She was apprehensive of this house, of the cousin, even of the grandmother. She truly did need Bea. Bea made her strong.

  "All right."

  Jillian looked up, thinking she had misunderstood him. "Pardon, sir?"

  "I said, all right," he repeated gruffly. "You may have your sister here as long as I am no part to sniveling. She may stay until the wedding." He raised that finger again. "But no longer."

  Jillian was confused. The man made no sense. One moment he was shouting and shaking his fist, the next moment he was gentle and soft-spoken. She was intrigued by the look on his face.
She wondered what made him tick. What really was beneath that purple scarf? "What made you change your mind?" she questioned.

  "You asked. I am a simple man, Jillian, with simple needs. Respect me and my wishes, and I will respect you and yours."

  She nodded, looking down at her bare toes peeking from beneath her gown. "And what of my wish not to wed you? Will you respect that?" Slowly, she lifted her gaze to meet his intense one.

  "That is not negotiable. Your father and I have made the decision for you."

  "And I'm supposed to pretend I'm pleased?"

  "You're supposed to accept your lot in life and make the best of it." He turned for the door. "Like the rest of us."

  Jillian watched him go, her emotions in a jumble. She was angry with this man, hurt by his cold words, frightened by his intense gaze. And yet, at the same time, something drew her to him. She had felt it even in the garden. There was a sexual attraction there she couldn't deny, but it was something more than that. Something about Duncan made her want to draw him to her breast, to stroke his hair, to somehow comfort him, for surely he was in dire need of comfort.

  "And what is yours?" Jillian asked, taking a hesitant step toward him.

  He turned in the doorway, the shadows crossing his face so that the scarf went unnoticed. For an instant Jillian tried to imagine what he would look like without the scarf, with the deformity beneath it. Was it truly so hideous?

  "Madame?"

  "Your lot in life. I'm asking you what it is you must accept as your lot"

  He caught the doorknob in his hand. "Good night to you, madame."

  Then he was gone, leaving Jillian to stand in the middle of the dark bedchamber, alone, frightened, and just a little intrigued by the man who claimed he would soon call her wife.

  Jillian dressed carefully the following morning, for a message had come from Duncan's grandmother. She had invited both Jillian and Beatrice to share the morning meal with her. Precisely nine o'clock, in the garden were the instructions brought by a handsome, young footman.

  So Beatrice and Jillian hustled about their new apartments, washing, dressing, putting up each other's hair. Beatrice said little as she helped her sister get ready to meet the dowager, but Jillian talked continually.

  It was what she did when she was nervous . . . or happy . . . or sad. Talking was what her father told Jillian she did best. He had once said that Jillian could talk the ear off a cattleman or King Charles himself, and charm them both.

  Jillian stood before a walnut-framed mirror studying her reflection. She had dressed in a day gown of rich azure blue with full three-quarter sleeves and an appropriate lace décolletage. She wore her sapphire earbobs with the matching necklace. Though she had only a few good pieces, she was fond of her jewelry. Lastly, she had Beatrice sweep most of her hair up in a handful of azure ribbons, leaving a few red tendrils of hair to fall at her face.

  Jillian turned in front of the mirror. Would Duncan find her attractive? Then she wondered why she cared. . . . If she had any sense, she'd cut her hair short and jagged and cover her head with ashes. She could tell Duncan she was in mourning for her beloved. The earl would not be anxious to marry a demented woman, would he?

  "You look lovely," Beatrice whispered, resting her hands on her sister's shoulders, staring wistfully into the mirror at their reflections side by side. Bea had dressed in a utilitarian brown gown with ecru lace. The dress was new and fashionable, but not particularly becoming.

  "Something's still not right," Jillian said, studying herself critically. "I look like a father's daughter, not a man's intended.

  Impulsively, Jillian picked a paring knife up off a side table where it had been left with a bowl of fresh fruit. With a couple quick slices of the knife, she trimmed the long hair that fell forward until it framed her face with curls. "There," she cried triumphantly. "Now I'm all the mode. Just like the woman we saw at the 'Change."

  Beatrice covered her mouth with her hand with a sharp intake of her breath. "Jilly! Mother said that woman was a paramour!"

  "She was pretty, though, wasn't she?" Jillian walked away from the mirror, giving her sister an impish grin. "Shall we go?"

  Jillian and Beatrice came down the grand staircase just as a dusty case clock on the landing struck nine. By the light of the morning, Jillian could see that the old house was in even greater need of repair than she'd thought last night. Though the house had certainly been grand once upon a time, it sadly lacked upkeep. The ceilings were cracked so that dust filtered down through the air. Some of the portraits on the walls hung askew because their nails had loosened in the crumbling wall-plaster. Many of the stair steps were marred from lack of oiling, and the banister was in desperate need of a good scrubbing.

  Jillian reached the bottom of the staircase. "God's teeth, if this is the state of ruin he keeps his grandmother in, what do you think he intends for me in the Colonies? A savage hut?"

  Beatrice clung to her sister's arm. "In all fairness, sister," she whispered as if the portraits might hear, "the earl has only recently come into his entitlement. Father said it was the cousin who kept the dowager these many years."

  "Whose side are you on?" Jillian frowned. "Well, something will have to be done about this." She ran a finger over a mahogany chair rail and showed her sister the thick dust. "I'll not live in this state, and the earl ought to be ashamed of himself for leaving a feeble old woman in such decay."

  The footman who had brought the dowager's message appeared in a doorway. "This way," he called, bowing as the two woman passed him.

  Then he led the sisters through a maze of dark hallways and rooms, each one in a sadder stage of dilapidation than the last, until finally they walked out through a glass door and into the sunshine of the garden.

  As poorly as the house was cared for, Jillian was shocked by how beautiful the garden was. Copied after an ancient Roman garden, it was finer than any Jillian had ever seen. Though she could only identify a few of the leafy plants and expertly pruned trees, it didn't take a botanist to appreciate what must have taken many years to build. From there on the stone landing, Jillian could see that the garden stretched on for what seemed an eternity, with chiseled Roman statues and stone benches for meditation. Somewhere beyond, she heard water falling.

  The feeble old dowager was not what Jillian had expected either. Out of nowhere appeared a woman, old, but by no means feeble.

  The Dowager Roderick approached Jillian and Beatrice with a bucket full of dirt in one hand and a trowel in the other. She was a tall, slender woman dressed in flowing Turkish robes with a turban around her head. And though her face was well wrinkled by time, tumbling from beneath the turban was hair as bright red as Jillian's own.

  "You must be Jillian," the dowager said, coming straight toward her. She put down her bucket and trowel. "No offense meant, dear," she told Beatrice, "but I know what my grandson likes." She offered her dirty-gloved hands to Jillian, and Jillian accepted them with a warm smile.

  "I am Daphne Roderick." She squeezed Jillian's hands with conviction.

  The older woman's laughing eyes told Jillian she had nothing to fear. If she were to have one friend in the household, she knew it would be the dowager.

  "I'm pleased to meet you, madame." Jillian swept a deep curtsy.

  Beatrice curtsied behind her.

  "Madame? Goodness, you're going to give me great-granddaughters. Call me Daphne, and I'll call you Jillian." She looped her arm through Jillian's as if they were the best of friends. "Let's eat. I'm starving, aren't you?"

  The dowager lead Jillian down a pathway. Beatrice followed behind.

  "It's well time Duncan married," the elderly woman rattled on. "A man needs a good woman to straighten out his head. Heavens! He's as mad as those Colonial savages, wearing that ridiculous scarf over his face!"

  Jillian wanted to ask about the scarf, and she was tempted, but she thought better of the idea. She would ask the dowager, but later.

  They entered a small clearing
where a table had been set with polished silver. Another handsome young footman pulled a chair out for the dowager.

  "Thank you, Charlie." She winked at him as she handed him her gloves.

  Jillian tried not to gape at the dowager, flirting openly with her servant, but she couldn't help herself. She'd never met a woman like Daphne Roderick before.

  "Sit, sit, sit, ladies." Daphne spread her arms, and the footman jumped to help first Jillian, then Beatrice into their seats

  The dowager immediately began to uncover steaming platters of blood sausage, egg pie, and baked apples. The scents that rose from the plates were heavenly. "And you must be the sister he turned down." She addressed Beatrice.

  Bea lowered her gaze to her plate, and Jillian slipped her hand beneath the table to squeeze Bea's.

  Instinctively, Jillian took up for her sister. "It was really rather awkward, madame—"

  "Daphne." The dowager served herself a healthy slice of egg pie and blood sausage. "I told you to call me Daphne, Jillian."

  "Daphne—"

  "Stuff and nonsense, Jillian. Let her answer for herself." The dowager stabbed a piece of sausage with her knife and pushed it into her mouth. "Was it awkward, dear? Are you upset that your sister has taken your husband? You don't look upset."

  Jillian watched Beatrice as she struggled to find her voice.

  "I . . . truthfully madame, I have to agree with the earl. I . . . he—he and Jillian are much better suited."

  "Bea!" Jillian protested.

  "Hush, child, and eat." The dowager pushed the serving dish of egg toward Jillian. "Your sister's attempting to converse."

  Beatrice glanced up meekly. "It's—it's true that we were betrothed, but his lordship chose Jilly instead." She twisted her hands in her lap. "I think it's what's best."

  "He didn't suit you then?"

  Beatrice squirmed. "No, no he didn't, madame."

  "Too loud." Daphne speared another bit of sausage. "Too moody, too arrogant."

  "Y—yes."

  The dowager smiled. "Well, then, good for you."