The Autumn Bride

by Anne Gracie

  Max smiled. That hadn’t changed all that much.

  Aunt Bea turned to Miss Chance, who’d hardly said a word. “I told you, didn’t I, Abby, that I knew what would please my nephew best.”

  “You did indeed.” Miss Chance smiled warmly at his aunt, but didn’t so much as glance in Max’s direction. She was still angry with him for what he’d said in the carriage. Max couldn’t entirely blame her.

  He didn’t know her motives, or why she was posing as Aunt Bea’s niece, but he now accepted that she’d intervened in a dreadful situation and saved the old lady, and for that he owed her. And he always paid his debts.

  “The dear gel wanted to save me the trouble, but I enjoyed it. Ah, potage Crécy,” said his aunt as the footman entered with a large soup tureen. “Potatoes, leeks, carrots, celery and cream—I know it’s a winter soup, but this ridiculous weather is cold enough to justify it, and you always used to enjoy it.”

  “Aren’t you having any?” Max asked as the footman went to serve him. His aunt should be served first.

  “No.” She pulled a face as the butler placed a bowl of creamy greenish liquid in front of her. “Apparently I have to have potage crème de compost.”

  Max frowned. “Crème de what?”

  “Compost.” She shrugged. “Well, that’s what I call it, and it’s perfectly apt, I assure you. It’s full of weeds—some witch’s brew of Damaris’s—oh, I grant you she puts in butter and cream and does her best to make the vile stuff palatable, but it’s still just weeds.”

  Max turned to Miss Damaris. “Weeds?”

  “It’s the same as our soup, only with a lot of extra herbs, including nettles and young dandelion leaves,” she said, quite composed. “They help cleanse the system, strengthen the blood and stimulate the appetite.”

  “It’s very good for you,” Miss Chance said, clearly aiming to draw his fire.

  He glanced at his aunt’s bowl of soup. “May I try some?”

  “Be my guest.” She pushed the bowl toward him.

  Max tasted it. It wasn’t bad. There was a slightly bitter aftertaste, but it was perfectly palatable. But if his aunt didn’t like it . . .

  “Do you have to eat it?”

  “Not if she doesn’t want to get better,” Miss Chance said brightly.

  “Oh, well, if I must,” Aunt Bea said in a long-suffering tone, and reached for her soup. “Since dear Damaris has made it for me herself. The girl can cook,” she told Max. “The very day the gels arrived, she made me my first decent meal in months—boiled egg with toast soldiers. And that’s not all—she cooked for the entire household for nearly a week until Featherby found Cook for us.”

  “Indeed, Miss Damaris, that’s an unusual skill for a lady,” Max said. Aunt Bea was drinking her soup quite happily, he saw, encouraged by Miss Chance, who broke open a warm bread roll and buttered it for her. She was, he saw, very attentive to his aunt. Almost protective. He just wished he knew why.

  Abigail Chance wasn’t the person referred to in Lady Beddington’s letter. The Scottish doctor had sung her praises, and Max could see she took good care of his aunt. And Aunt Bea was clearly very fond of her and the other girls.

  But why someone like Miss Chance should interest herself in the affairs of an aristocratic old lady who Max was sure had no connection to her—and how she’d met his aunt in the first place—was still a source of unease.

  Max didn’t believe in altruism—in his experience, people usually had secret, less-than-admirable motives.

  “My father gave me a very broad-ranging education,” Miss Damaris said.

  “And, Miss Jane, do you cook too?” Max asked her.

  “Heavens, no.” The girl laughed. “We never learned anything useful at the Pill, did we, Abby?” Her sister looked daggers at her across the table, but Miss Jane was oblivious.

  “The Pill?” Max prompted.

  “The Pillbury H—” She gasped and turned to Damaris in surprise—Max guessed it was a sharp elbow to the ribs—then looked at Abby. “Oh.” Blushing, she started drinking her soup.

  The Pillbury H—House? Home? Whatever it was, Miss Chance didn’t want her sister to speak of it, which meant Max was very interested indeed. He turned back to Miss Damaris. “So you two must have had different fathers.”

  She blushed and mumbled something in the affirmative.

  “And yet you are both called Chance.” He let that dangle in the silence for a long moment, then added, “How very singular.”

  “Isn’t it just?” Miss Abby said with a glittering affability that fooled no one. “But then, life is singular, isn’t it?” Daring him to make something of it.

  Max smiled. There was a short silence as the servants cleared away the soup bowls and replaced them with dinner plates.

  “I’m afraid Miss Chance is a little cross with me, Aunt Bea,” Max said, as the butler served him from a dish of freshly carved roast beef. He was rewarded with a flash of gray-green as Miss Chance darted him a narrow glance. “We had an . . . exchange of views this morning.”

  “Abby, is that right? You’re cross with my nephew?” Apparently this delighted his aunt.

  “Not at all. It’s not his fault,” Miss Chance said smoothly.

  It was not forgiveness in any way, shape or form. It was bait. Max waited.

  “What isn’t his fault?”

  Miss Chance finished serving herself from a dish of green beans. “That he’s lived in wild and uncivilized parts for so long, he’s forgotten how a gentleman should conduct himself.”

  Her sisters gasped. His aunt gave a startled glance at Max, then let out a crack of laughter. “And what do you say to that, dear boy?”

  “Nothing, Aunt Bea. I believe I was twelve when you taught me that a gentleman never contradicts a lady.” He looked at Miss Chance and added, “In public.”

  Unconcerned, she speared a green bean and ate it.

  “And what was your exchange of views about?” Aunt Bea pursued.

  Her sisters tensed and watched him covertly. She’d obviously told them everything, but hadn’t mentioned it to his aunt. Why not? It would have been to her advantage.

  But Miss Chance said nothing. Clearly she didn’t intend to disclose their quarrel at all, even when invited to. Instead she ate a second bean. Slowly.

  “I do believe,” Max said, just as the bean slid between her lips, “that I owe Miss Chance an apology for some of the things I said.”

  Her eyes widened. She choked.

  Max waited until she’d stopped coughing and had drunk the rest of her champagne.

  “I said some harsh things, Miss Chance. I was mistaken, and for that I apologize.”

  “Handsomely said, my boy,” his aunt said approvingly. “A credit to your upbringing—that would be me,” she added to the girls at the table. “Now, Abby, what do you have to say to that?”

  “I accept your apology, Lord Davenham,” she said quietly, but made no attempt to apologize for the things she’d said to him. Including the accusation that he’d left his aunt to rot. Which still rankled.

  So she was not wholly reconciled. That was fine with Max; he was still suspicious of her motives. And her background.

  “I believe you’ve visited a great many interesting places, Lord Davenham,” she said as Featherby removed her plate. “Would you tell us about them?”

  “Oh, please, Lord Davenham,” Jane chimed in, clearly eager to make up for her earlier faux pas. “I’d love to hear about your adventures; wouldn’t you, Damaris?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Damaris murmured obediently.

  He glanced at Daisy and waited for her to express her passionate desire for a traveler’s tale, but perhaps nobody had nudged or kicked her, for she continued to concentrate wholly on her dinner. Actually, he saw, she was concentrating on managing her cutlery. Scowling over it, with sideways glances every few minutes to watch how Miss Chance was managing hers.

  With elegant assurance and complete lack of self-consciousness, he noted; she�
��d been well brought up, as had the other two.

  The second course was brought out: crumbed sweetbreads, a fish dish and a predominance of sweet dishes that his aunt had promised.

  “Well, Max?” his aunt demanded. “Are you going to tell us about your travels?”

  So for the rest of the meal Max entertained them with traveler’s tales about some of the more interesting and exotic places he’d been and some of the adventures he and his friends had had.

  It was all going well until Miss Chance reached for the syllabub, one of his favorites, a dish of sweet, tangy whipped cream. It matched the frothy top she was wearing.

  She dipped a spoon into the creamy confection and transferred it to her mouth.

  Max swallowed. His narrative faltered.

  Her eyes half closed in bliss as her lips closed over the spoon and she let the sweet mixture slide over her tongue and down her throat.

  Max forced himself to resume his story. There was nothing at all unusual about the way she was eating; it was all perfectly comme il faut. So why could he not take his eyes off her?

  She spooned up another mouthful. This time when the spoon was slowly withdrawn a tiny, gleaming morsel of syllabub remained quivering in the corner of her upper lip. Unhurriedly she licked it off.

  Max’s words dried up along with his throat.

  After a moment Miss Chance stopped spooning up the syllabub. Her brows rose. She was looking at him. The entire table was looking at him, waiting for him to continue his story. Hanged if he knew what it was. He cleared his throat.

  “You’re fond of syllabub, Miss Chance?” Sparkling conversation, indeed.

  “Very. And you, Lord Davenham?” She took a third leisurely spoonful. His groin tightened.

  “Yes.” It came out as a croak. He wrenched his gaze off Miss Chance’s delectable mouth and turned to his aunt. He half expected to receive a knowing grin—she could be very acute at times—but instead she looked weary and rather worn, and Max was immediately concerned. “How are you feeling, Aunt Bea? Not too tired?”

  “I am, as it happens.” She grimaced. “Getting old, I’m afraid.”

  “Nonsense, it’s your first night downstairs and it’s been a day full of excitement,” Miss Chance said. “No wonder you’re tired. You’re making wonderful progress, but you must not overtire yourself. Shall I call William to take you upstairs?” She rose to help.

  “I’ll do it,” Max said. He walked around the table and scooped his aunt into his arms—she was shockingly light—and carried her up to her bedchamber. Miss Chance hurried ahead, opening doors and sending for Sutton, Aunt Bea’s maid.

  “I’ll be all right now with Sutton,” the old lady said testily as Max placed her gently on the bed. “There’s no need for you two to hang around.”

  Max left. Abby took a few moments more, but Lady Beatrice flapped her hands, shooing her away. “Just because I’m a hopeless crock doesn’t mean you young things should have your evening spoiled.”

  “You didn’t spoil anything,” Abby assured her. “It was a lovely evening and the dinner was delicious. Anyway, I expect Lord Davenham has another engagement—he’d hardly wish to drink his port in solitary splendor, would he?”

  But when she emerged from Lady Beatrice’s room, she found Lord Davenham waiting for her in the corridor.

  “I meant what I said earlier,” he said. “Some of the things I said to you in the carriage were unnecessarily harsh, and for that I apologize.”

  She could hear the but coming, so she said it for him, with an assumption of cool composure. “But?”

  “But you and I both know you’re no relation to my aunt, let alone her nieces.” He took a step closer. “So while I value the care you’ve taken of my aunt in the sickroom—and I do thank you sincerely for it—I also want to make it clear that it doesn’t give you and your so-called sisters the right to impose on her in other ways. And I’m warning you now: I mean to ensure you don’t. The minute I see the least hint of imposition, you and those others will be out on your ear—is that understood?”

  He stared down at her for a long moment. Abby tried desperately to think of some devastating response, but her mind was infuriatingly blank. All she could do was glare. Impotently.

  Apparently satisfied with her response—or lack of it—he turned on his heel and strode off. A moment later she heard the front door open, then close as he left the house.

  * * *

  “I can’t work out what she’s up to,” Max told Freddy. He’d tracked him down at the club, accompanied him to another club and finally wandered back to Freddy’s lodgings for a quiet drink. “I’m sure she has some scheme in mind, but what the devil is it?”

  “Probably marriage—it’s what muffins usually want.” Freddy had already made impressive inroads on the brandy when Max had arrived.

  Max snorted. “How would looking after my aunt lead to marriage? I wasn’t even in the country when she started, and nobody, not even you or my aunt, knew I was coming home.”

  Perplexed, Freddy scratched his stylishly coiffed head. “It’s an exceptionally cunning plot, I grant you, but you should never underestimate the tortuous subtleties of a muffin’s mind.”

  “She’s not a muffin.” Not that Max knew precisely what a muffin—in Freddy’s terminology—was, but he was certain Abigail Chance wasn’t one. She was too damned attractive, for a start. Too much for his own ease of mind.

  Freddy shook his head. “You’ve been away so long, living the free life of an adventurer, you’re out of touch. Trust me, muffins are everywhere.” He considered the statement, then added, “Except on ships, which is why you’re so ignorant on the subject.”

  Max thought about that. Freddy was a trifle castaway, but there was some truth in what he said; Max had been out of the company of Englishwomen for the last nine years. In fact, given that he’d been eighteen when he left, and hadn’t had much experience with women—Englishwomen, at least—he could be said to be almost completely ignorant of the species.

  “So what do you think?”

  Freddy swirled the brandy in his glass, observing the candlelight through it. “It’s about gratitude.”

  “Gratitude?”

  Freddy nodded wisely. “Knows you’re fond of Lady Bea. Thinks if the old lady’s fond of her, you’ll pop the question.”

  Max snorted. “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard of. Marry someone because my aunt likes her?”

  “Not saying it’s what you’d do; saying it’s what a muffin would think.”

  “Nonsense. She’d be a fool if she expected marriage for such a reason, and she’s no fool. Nor is she a muffin, whatever that is.” He walked over to the fire—really, it was ridiculously cold for summer—and stirred up the coals with the poker. “She’s getting bed and board from my aunt, and a small allowance—and if that’s all it was, I’d understand it, but she takes real trouble with my aunt. Far above and beyond what it would be reasonable to expect any servant or paid companion to do. A stranger seeing them together would imagine them to be mother and daughter. Or grandmother and granddaughter.” Aunt and niece, as his aunt ludicrously claimed.

  “Maybe that’s what she wants, then.”

  “What? To be a granddaughter?”

  “It’s how women think,” Freddy insisted. “Very family-minded, females.”

  “But that’s ridiculous—she can’t. She’s not—they’re not my aunt’s family—that’s my whole point. You don’t just walk up and move into someone’s family.”

  Freddy shook his head. “Max, Max, Max, the trouble with you is for the last nine years—well, most of your life, come to think of it—you’ve lived in a masculine world; you’re used to logic, reason, sense. Females don’t think like we do; they’re emotional.”

  That was true enough. When the mood took her, Aunt Bea was quite impervious to logic. Max poked the fire savagely, sending sparks dancing up the chimney.

  “F’r instance, the other day the mater wept at me.”


  Max blinked. It didn’t sound like Freddy’s mother. Of course, he hadn’t seen her in years, but his impression of her had always been that of a brisk, no-nonsense woman, a noted society hostess who’d managed to fire off all of Freddy’s sisters successfully.

  “Assure you, she produced actual tears. As if that’s going to make me hoof it down the aisle with some suitable female. I ask you—can you see me leg-shackled for life to someone suitable?”

  “It doesn’t exactly spring to mind,” Max agreed.

  “Not logical, you see. If it was m’father, now, he’d simply issue an order.”

  “And you’d obey?”

  Freddy considered that. “No, I’d probably do exactly what I’ve always done.”

  “The opposite?”

  “More or less. So in a devious move, he’s set the mater onto it. Because you can’t reason with females. They don’t think logically. And they fight dirty.”

  Max raised a brow.

  “Tears,” said Freddy darkly. “The lowest move of all, mark my words.”

  * * *

  It was all too frustrating, Abby thought as she prepared for bed. She wasn’t used to being in the wrong. She didn’t like it one little bit.

  She removed her clothing swiftly, folding each garment neatly. The situation—and the man—made her so cross.

  It was all very well to tell herself that Lord Davenham’s suspicions of her and her sisters were perfectly justified. They were no relation, they were living under a false name and they had made the acquaintance of Lady Beatrice in a less-than-honorable manner.

  The fact that they intended her only good, that they cared for her, should outweigh those things, but she could understand why, to some—to him—they might not.

  All he really knew was that they weren’t her nieces, but since Lady Beatrice claimed they were, he could have nothing to say. Should have nothing to say.

  She pulled her nightgown on.

  The way he prowled around Abby like a big, suspicious guard dog sparked her temper as well as her guilt. She might not be completely lily white and pure in her motives, but she’d rescued Lady Beatrice from a dire situation, whereas he’d left her to rot!