by The Bargain
"Robert!" came the thin rasp of a voice from the bedclothes. "You can just stop your looking at me like that! I'm not dead yet, you know... though it won't be long...." The duke paused a moment, seeking to catch his breath, but he held Adams's eyes as he did so, daring him to comment on his weakened condition.
At last feeling he had gathered enough strength, he continued. "I have no illusions about my own future, old friend, so spare me your pity, but what I am anxious about is Brett's! Tell me, did you bring her? Is the woman here?"
Adams nodded. "Lady Margaret has seen to her installation in the proper chamber, Your Grace."
The duke nodded weakly, even this small exertion costing him strength. "Good, good," he rasped, then beckoned with a finger for Adams to draw closer. "I hope," he added with an amused smile, "my sister's withering glare did not scorch you when you presented the woman to her, Robert! Owing to my poor health, I've been forced to include Margaret in my scheme, and she's consented to go along with it because she's so hot to set up the alliance with her dear Hastingses again, but if you could have seen her face the day I stated my plans! Ah, Robert, it was a vision I'll carry to my grave." He chuckled. "To see that haughty visage of hers wrinkled up in distaste at my—"
Here the chuckle gave way to a paroxysm of coughing; Adams leaned over him with concern, then turned and reached for a goblet of water that stood on a nearby stand; he quickly held it to the old man's lips, propping up his head at the same time with a hand beneath the pillows. At length the coughing subsided, and the duke fell weakly back upon the bed.
"Ah, yes... best conserve my strength, I suppose." John Westmont's voice was a mere shred of a whisper. "Especially since I'll need it in dealing with my grandson! Now, Robert, will you do me one favor?"
"Anything, Your Grace," Adams said quickly.
"Give me a few minutes' rest," said the duke, "and then send Brett to me. It's time I forged the final link in his education regarding women!"
* * * * *
Half an hour later Brett Westmont was striding from the stables toward the rear garden entrance to the house, it being the closest to the wing where the duke's private quarters lay. He was still full of the exhilarating effects of the ride he'd just taken across the lush countryside of his grandfather's estate. Ah, Kent in springtime! he thought as he paused before the massive chestnut tree in the garden where he used to play as a young child. I'd forgotten how lovely it can be! His eyes roamed over the slowly darkening meadows and shadowy trees in the distance, beginning to purple now in the fading light. From the corners of the garden walls came the steady chirrup of crickets, and not too far away, the mellow sound of cattle lowing, but all else was silent, with not even the faintest stirring of a breeze to mar the still, evening air.
He stopped for a moment longer, running his hand over the tree's rough bark and was all at once filled with a sense of melancholy so deep, it seemed to pierce his soul. What am I doing with my life these days, he asked himself, that is so all-consuming, so terribly important, that I have failed to take the time to pause and drink of beauty and tranquillity such as this? How long it's been since I even realized such moments still exist!
He shook his head sadly then, at what he suddenly perceived as his own folly and followed this with a bark of mirthless laughter. All at once his head filled with scenes of his life as it had been for the past several years—the long, empty days at sea where, more frequently than not, his official mission was so boring, he would doff his gentleman's garb and throw himself headlong into common seaman's labor, just to make the time pass faster... the wild, senseless nights in London, the incessant rounds of parties, routs and balls, crowded with people who spoke much, yet said little... the boredom of frivolous gossip, high-stakes card games and beautiful, yet dull, mistresses who with predictable regularity dropped from sight as quickly as they appeared... Where was it all taking him?
He thought, then, of the old man lying amid the bedcovers in his upstairs chamber, awaiting his end. Ah, Grandfather! Is this what it's all been for? You bade me work hard and apply myself while you trained and groomed me for the life I was to lead one day, to follow in your footsteps, and I have done so, willingly, unflinchingly, for it was important to earn your respect... your love.... But now that I've done so, where do I go from here? How do I apportion some sense and meaning to an existence that, by virtue of those very skills and achievements you exhorted me to attain, runs along so smoothly, I cannot fail but to look about me now and ask, what now? What are my challenges? Shall I too end up a sick and failing old man, lying alone in an upstairs chamber, waiting for the lights to dim?
At last Brett sighed and dropped his hand from the tree's trunk. He glanced upward and saw the dimly lit windows he knew to grace the south side of his grandfather's corner room. Well, he thought with more than a trace of stoical resignation, enough of me and my world-weariness right now. Up there lies the only person in the world who gives a damn whether I live or die, and he's waiting for me. I'd better see what I can do to make his last moments count. And with a resolute squaring of his shoulders, Brett went into the house.
The duke was asleep when Brett entered the chamber, but woke readily to the soft click of the latch as his grandson closed the door behind him. "Ah, Brett, boy, you're here!" He gestured toward the bedside chair where Robert Adams had been sitting earlier. "Come, sit down beside me and we can talk without your having to strain to hear." The duke gave a weak chuckle. "Ah, this damnable failure of the body! I tell you, Brett, I'd have ended it all long ago if I'd known it was to be like this!"
Brett threw the old man a sharp look of concern as he lowered his tall frame into the chair. "You cannot mean that, sir. It's not like you to talk of—"
"It's not like the me I used to be, you mean!" interrupted the duke. "The man you see before you is a different kettle of fish, I assure you, but I've not called you here to discuss me and my frailties. I've asked you to come because I want to talk about you."
"About me," said Brett, interest showing in his turquoise eyes. "With regard to—?"
The duke was silent for a moment as the question hung in the air. He was at a loss to know how to approach the subject agreeably. Finally he decided to plunge in headlong, for he was acutely aware that time was running out for him. "Brett, it's about this attitude you have toward women and marriage. It's been troubling me."
The look on Brett's face couldn't have been plainer, accompanied as it was by a snort of obvious disdain. "Troubling you! I fail to see why, since it was an attitude bred wholly by you! 'Women are a canker,'" he quoted, "'a blight on—'"
"Yes, yes," rasped the duke impatiently. "I know all that and need no reminders of my speeches. And the fact remains, dear Brett, that all I've cautioned you about, regarding the so-called delicate sex, is lamentably true, believe me!"
"So—?" Brett questioned. "Where is the problem?"
"The problem," snapped the duke with a surprising spurt of vigor that reminded Brett of the grandfather of his youth, "is that you seem to have forgotten that I nevertheless also taught you that females are, in one unavoidable regard, totally necessary: in the breeding process, to produce heirs!" He fell back upon the pillows from which he had arisen, again looking weak and tired.
Brett watched the old man's face for a second and was momentarily moved to pity, but, seeing which turn their conversation was taking, forced himself to deal with his irritation. "I see," he said at last. "So you would have me wed... to the Hastings cow... and see her quickly breeding!"
The duke's eyebrows lowered in a darkening scowl that again reminded Brett of earlier times. "You can save the stings of your acid tongue for your friends at Almack's, m' boy! I'll have none of it!" Here a sudden spasm of coughing seized the duke's wasted frame, but as Brett reached for the bedside water goblet, he waved him away, and soon the coughing ceased. "'Cow,' indeed!" sniffed the duke. "Heavens, man, she's one of the most sought-after heiresses of the season, I'm told!"
Brett's sneeri
ng smile preceded a voice laced with disgust. "It would seem you've allowed the Lady Margaret your ear. Can it be you no longer find her company tedious or repulsive?"
At this the Duke shook his head in a gesture of sad dismay. "Dammit, boy, I had hoped to get through this session with a modicum of intelligent discussion and civility, not to mention sensitivity, but I now see I must take the bull by the horns, and sensitivity be damned!"
Brett looked at the resolute will now resting in the blue eyes and waited, knowing something important was forthcoming.
"It has occurred to me," continued the duke, "that there may be a major underlying cause for this unreasonable resistance of yours toward taking a wife—a cause that I have taken immediate steps to counteract."
Watching the turquoise eyes that met his gaze, the duke knew he had his grandson's complete attention now, and so, plunged ruthlessly on. "I speak of your singular omission in the education that has been lavished on you, Brett—your inexperience with women! No, it's no use to deny it, so don't even bother. Uncomfortable as it renders me to admit it to you, I've had careful and close tabs kept on you over the years, and not once has any word come back to me about your fraternization with females. It must mean you are yet a virgin, or close to it. What else would explain it? Adams has a remarkable penchant for thoroughness, as you can well attest, and—" Suddenly a fit of coughing overtook the old man again, and this time it was so violent, it seemed it would tear his withered frame in half.
Brett's look of incredulity at the words he'd just heard gave way to one of deep concern as he witnessed the attack. Compassion etched his features as he reached for the water goblet that, this time, was gratefully accepted. When the fit had at last subsided, he saw before him the specter of his grandfather as he'd known him—a strong man who was now dying— and the acute realization of this robbed him of any speech of denial he had been prepared to make. Softly, he queried, "Are you too ill to continue, Grandfather? Shall I leave you to rest until—"
"No... no," came the much weakened response. "No... time... let me finish...." There was a long pause as the duke appeared to be mustering his remaining energy. Then he began again, though Brett had to lean forward to catch all the words.
"You need to learn the ways of bedding a woman, lad, and I've arranged, through Adams, to take care of that for you." He smiled weakly. "After all, your ignorance is actually my own doing, my... fault... so it is only fitting that I see that it comes to an end.
"Listen carefully. Installed at this very moment, in your chamber, is a tasty little morsel... a woman of... pleasure, handpicked by Adams for me, for the sole purpose of—of instructing you along the lines I've been discussing."
The duke suddenly made an enormous effort to rise, bracing himself shakily on his elbows, a look of eager concern on his face. "Promise me now, lad, that you'll go to her... now— at once! It's the last thing I may ever ask of you. Spend whatever time you feel you require to feel comfortable in bed with a woman, and then make plans, posthaste, to wed.... Promise me!"
These last words were uttered in the weakest of whispers, and with them, the old man fell back on the pillows, silent and exhausted.
Brett stood looking at the still figure, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. It was almost on his lips to set his grandfather straight, but the grayish-purple hue about the duke's lips prevented him. Sadly, he chose what he hoped would be a wiser course. After all, he mused, what harm would come of satisfying an old man's dying illusion?
And so, with a weary sigh, he took the duke's hand and answered, "Very well, Grandfather, I promise."
CHAPTER FIVE
Ashleigh looked about her in the spacious, lavishly appointed bedchamber, her eyes feasting on its richness, its symbols of taste and obvious wealth. Against the interior wall to her left stood the room's focal point, a high tester bed, its heavy, deep blue velvet hangings not obscuring the massive grace of Chippendale's design. It was a style from an earlier era, she knew—not like the furniture in the majority of the rooms at Hampton House, which were done in the latest Regency mode; its quiet elegance as well as that of the other pieces in the chamber, spoke of a place furnished with care, in a manner that would tastefully withstand the fleeting dictates of fashion's whims.
She glanced down at the thick Eastern carpet under her feet, its intricate designs drawing the eye into a splendid maze of deep wine reds, jewel-like blues and delicate creams, and she resisted the urge to kick off her slippers and dig her toes into its silky softness.
There had been a carpet like it in a room she now recalled with vivid clarity—Patrick's bedchamber at Sinclair House. Suddenly her gaze drifted to the two windows with their velvet draperies that matched the blue of the bedhangings. She knew why she was thinking of her childhood home so much right now. and it had little to do with Turkey carpets or fine English furniture.
Quickly, she walked over to stand before one of the twin windows and, pulling aside the blue velvet, looked out. It was quite dark now, but a nearly full moon had appeared over the horizon as she accompanied the man named Adams to this place, its pale shape casting enough light over the changing landscape to enable her to view most of the scenery in some detail through her carriage window. Now, as she surveyed the lovely bucolic countryside, she was again caught up in the aching sense of familiarity that had first hit her during the journey. Yes, incredible though it seemed, she was sure: this was the countryside of her childhood!
Although she'd been not quite seven the last time she'd seen Kent, there were memories of her early years here that would always remain with her. Looking south, she fancied she could still see the gentle banks of the Medway River, which, Adams had confirmed, was the one they'd spied as they were passing over the Downs en route. Not too much farther south lay the town of Tunbridge Wells, where Patrick and her father had taken her to a wonderful country fair when she was five. And that way lay Knole, home of friends she and her parents used to visit, while Penshurst Place, another vast country house she'd once visited, lay in yet another direction, but not too far from here either.
Even the air had seemed familiar when she alighted from the carriage after it pulled to a halt on the large circular drive below, and she remembered Adams giving her a queer sort of look after she'd paused for a moment, closing her eyes and breathing deeply, just to drink in the sweet nostalgic scent of it. How very odd, she thought, to be returning here after all these years.... It's almost as if life were circular, in a way.... I wonder what other surprises this new turn in my life has in store for me....
She turned from the window and took another long, slow look about the room. The only inelegant object in it was the small, worn leather valise Megan had lent her to hold the few meager belongings she owned. Her friend had apologized profusely for the shabbiness of its appearance, explaining with a wry laugh that she owned no other, owing to the fact that she traveled very little these days, her "profession" being a stationary one. But Ashleigh had protested the apology, saying it was hardly necessary. Hadn't Megan already outdone herself by digging into her hard-won savings to present her with a parting gift—a beautiful walking dress with matching pelisse and bonnet?
She paused a moment in front of a handsome walnut chest of drawers with a serpentine front and peered into the graceful little Queen Anne looking glass above it. The bonnet, like her dress, was a beautiful cornflower blue, with a double row of paler blue ruche about the brim, echoing the dozen rows of similar ruche at the hem of her skirt. She smiled into the mirror, revealing a single dimple in her left cheek as well as a row of perfect white teeth. Why, she thought with some surprise, I actually look... pretty! Then she frowned, glancing away from the glass in confusion. Were governesses supposed to look pretty? Would the duke find her so, and if he did, would it suit?
But Ashleigh had no more time to contemplate her doubts over her appearance, for just then there came a firm knocking at the door. Without thinking, she responded with a form commonly used at Hampton House when bidding
someone enter; instilled among its inhabitants by Madame, it was always uttered in French. "Entrez," she called.
The door swung open and there, before her, stood the handsomest man she'd ever seen! He was easily six feet tall, with a head of deep chestnut hair worn in a casually tousled version of the a la Titus so in mode at the moment. His clothes, consisting of fawn-colored riding breeches that fit him like his own skin and a well-tailored deep green riding jacket, were also cut in the latest fashion, and he wore them with an air of casual grace, neither detracting from, nor adding overly to, their quiet, understated elegance.
But it was his face that captured and held Ashleigh's astonished attention: masculine perfection met her eyes in a symmetrical blending of features that could have been the model for classical statues of old—a wide, handsome brow, fringed by those chestnut curls; a straight, chiseled nose that harmonized with the wide, sensual mouth that just then was faintly turned up at one corner, hinting of a lazy smile; high, angular cheekbones; a firm, square chin that bespoke strength and perhaps a hint of stubbornness; and then there were his eyes! She'd not known such a color to exist in eyes before! Of a rich, sea-foam turquoise, they were heavily lashed and ever so slightly deep-set; but beyond this, they were far more than a summation of their color and shape. There was something disturbing and yet equally compelling about them, and Ashleigh found herself curious over the complex mysteries she sensed in their depths; they were the eyes of a man who had seen and tasted much, yet yearned for something more, and with this longing came a tinge of... sadness, yes, that was it, she decided, although if anyone had asked her how she knew these things, she'd have been at a loss to tell him.
Then, just as she was about to tear her riveted gaze away and form the courage to say something, the look in his eyes changed, and she thought she saw something else—a hardness, perhaps, coupled with a hint of arrogance, maybe even cruelty. But before she could analyze any of this, he spoke, his rich, masculine voice filling the chamber.