by The Bargain
"Well, my good fellow, what progress?"
The driver, a short, burly man with auburn hair and side whiskers, answered in a Scottish burr. "She's nae ready yet, sir, for a' the time it's cost, bu' gie us anither fi' minutes an'— ah, there ye hae it, Davey! Well done, laddie, well done!"
The "laddie" was the driver's son, a brawny youngster of about fourteen or fifteen; the pair of them had just spent the past two hours—and six minutes, Adams calculated as he dared to peer at his pocket watch again—removing a massive oak tree that had fallen across the only road that led from Cloverhill Manor to Ravensford Hall. It had apparently been uprooted in an early-summer thunderstorm that hit the area the night before last, and since the only ones to use this road were members of the Hastings and Westmont households and those who had business with them, Adams assumed it had not been cleared because he was the first to travel this route since the storm, curse the luck!
He had spent the afternoon at Cloverhill Manor at the request of Lady Margaret Westmont, meeting with the Hastingses on behalf of the duke to set the wheels in motion for an alliance between the two families. Adams smiled briefly at how easy it had been. More than twenty years ago his father, Raymond Adams, had had the task of setting up a similar arrangement between the Hastings family and the Westmonts, and most of that paperwork had survived—the firm of Adams and Adams kept meticulous records—forever. This had served him adequately as guidance in what would prove to be a detailed and intricately wrought contract.
As Adams felt the carriage lurch forward and heard its wheels grind beneath him, however, his thoughts turned fretful again. Normally he exhibited the patience of Job when encountering obstacles in the routine of his day-to-day affairs. This was because Adams rarely left anything to chance. If he estimated a meeting would take an hour to be completed, he always allowed an hour and a half; if the distance between two points of business required a two-hour journey, Adams allowed three. Punctuality was at the top of his list of virtues in all his dealings, business and personal, and he rarely fell short of it.
This morning, when he had arrived at Ravensford Hall at the behest of Lady Margaret, he'd heard her request that he begin arrangements with the Hastingses and planned his day accordingly. After a footman had been sent ahead to announce his visit, he'd traveled back to the inn at noonday to gather his papers. He dined well, though sparingly—Adams was vain enough to resist the gastronomical temptations that would force him to wear the corset donned by many men of fashion, the Prince of Wales included. He allowed what he thought would be more than adequate time to conclude his business and be back at the duke's home in time to intercept Brett before he arrived. At least, he'd thought he'd allowed enough time.
But during his visit with the Hastingses he'd learned that Brett was already home—Lady Elizabeth had heard it from servants' gossip after his horse had been spotted by a groom. The lady had also, Adams recalled, been highly miffed that neither his lordship nor anyone in his family had taken pains to send her word that he was returning home at this time, and it had taken a great deal of diplomatic skill on Adams's part to smooth her ruffled feathers. This news, however, had alarmed him greatly, for Lady Margaret had totally neglected to inform him of Brett's arrival when she spoke this morning, and he'd feared his plans to confess his sin of having kept Brett's grandfather in the dark regarding his social life all these years, might already have been thwarted.
But Lady Margaret's silence had also indicated to Adams that any disturbing encounter between Brett and the duke had probably not occurred; surely, if Brett had raged, or worse, laughed in the old duke's face, over their scheme to present him with a whore's tutoring, he would have heard about it! Indeed, he would probably have been called on the carpet by either the duke or his heir, or both, once his well-intentioned duplicity was uncovered.
Strange, Adams thought as he felt the carriage make the turn that would take it up the main drive of Ravensford Hall. Why wouldn't that old witch have mentioned her grand-nephew's return?
Adams smiled grimly as he pictured the face of Lady Margaret Westmont, with its elongated contours, long, straight nose and icy blue eyes. He had no illusions about that woman. She was as formidable a personage as any he'd ever met in breeches or pantaloons, and he'd spent the years in which he'd served the Westmont family assiduously avoiding any confrontations with the one he knew the servants called Iron Skirts. It was better, he'd long ago resolved—having learned it from his father before him—to deal with the no-quarter-given, yet open and forthright demands of His Grace than to become enmeshed in the underhanded machinations of his sister.
Again Adams smiled as he settled, with this last notion, on the probable reason for her omission over Brett's arrival. She had been completely in her element this morning, he thought, so wrapped up in her plans to see her matchmaking scheme come to fruition, she could hardly be bothered with the arrival of the grandnephew she'd always hated.
Adams drew himself up rigidly. Hated? Had he actually used that word to describe the woman's attitude toward her grandnephew? After a moment's pause, Adams settled back in the carriage, nodding slowly to himself. Yes, it was appropriate, all right, though he was damned if he'd ever figured out why she'd harbored such deep feelings of enmity against the boy, feelings that went back to Brett's childhood! Perhaps that was it, Adams concluded as he glanced out the window and saw the magnificent brick facade of Ravensford Hall come into view. She's never married and had any offspring of her own—although, if his father were to be believed, she'd been quite an attractive woman in her youth and had not lacked for suitors. She probably harbored an old maid's resentment of those who had wed and produced progeny. There certainly had been no love lost between her and her twin over the years, and the woman's sourness and perversity had simply extended to the duke's progeny as well.
Well, thought Adams as the carriage pulled into the great circular drive fronting the Hall, enough time spent on figuring out the character and motives of that old crone. Right now he had to be concerned with making some explanations to her grandnephew.
But as Adams alighted from the carriage and beheld the faces of several servants who rushed out to meet him, he quickly realized those explanations would have to wait.
* * * * *
Ashleigh sat, brooding and stony faced, at the dressing table in the chamber where she'd spent the past twenty-four hours. She succumbed to the careful brushing of her long, heavy tresses by a young maid who'd arrived an hour before to help her bathe and dress. Behind them, busily fluffing up the pillows on the huge tester bed Ashleigh had come to hate the sight of, was an older woman who'd arrived with the maid, cheerfully introducing herself as Mrs. Busby, the housekeeper.
Catching sight of Mrs. Busby in the mirror gathering up the soiled linens she'd recently replaced with fresh ones, Ashleigh quickly averted her glance. The linens reminded her all too painfully of the look of abashed amazement on the older woman's face when she'd begun stripping the bed a while ago and noticed the bloodstains that bore silent witness to Ashleigh's loss of virginity.
I won't cry in front of them, I won't! she vowed as she forced her eyes to look at her reflection in the glass. Not that it mattered. Any fool could see, by looking at her, that she'd been weeping.
And why? Because some insane mix-up had convinced Lord Brett Westmont that she'd been a professional woman of pleasure, and despite her protestations, the blackguard had arrogantly set about using her, ruthlessly, for hours.
She resisted the temptation to part her dressing gown and glance down at her lower limbs to see if there were any marks to testify to the soreness she felt about her thighs and buttocks. She ached in several places at once, but it was not the physical damage that threatened to overwhelm her; it was the shame... and the anger.
Reluctantly, her thoughts turned to the handsome fiend who had caused her—and cost her—so much pain. He had spent the entire night here in the chamber with her, forcing her, again and again—dear God, the shame of it
!—to submit to all manner of intimacies. He had taken her so often during the night, she'd lost count; it seemed he was insatiable. Several times he'd allowed her to fall asleep, exhausted, in his damnable arms, only to reawaken her a short time later, eager to have his way again.
Then, sometime late in the morning, he'd told her to get some sleep and left—without another word. She'd waited until she was reasonably sure he wasn't going to return right away and hurriedly dressed to leave. But when she'd grabbed her valise and tried the door, she found he'd locked her in!
The rest of the day she'd spent alternately weeping and shouting for someone to release her, but whether anyone heard, she couldn't tell; no one came. Sometime late in the afternoon she'd at last fallen asleep in an armchair near the fireplace. (She'd resolved never to go near that bed again!)
Finally she'd awakened to the sound of the door being unlocked, and Mrs. Busby and the young maid had appeared, cheerful and solicitous, looking for all the world as if a strange young woman's disheveled appearance in the guest chamber were an everyday occurrence.
Perhaps it was, reflected Ashleigh as her sapphire eyes narrowed and she thought of her tormentor. A man like that's probably had no end of women, probably in this very chamber!
Oh, she seethed, Brett Westmont, lord or no lord, someday I'll see you pay for what you've done to me! Just you wait and see if I don't!
Just then the door opened, and the object of her anger entered, looking as if he too had recently bathed and changed. He was immaculate, from head to foot, dressed in a dark blue evening coat and crisp white waistcoat, his cravat as expertly tied as Brummell's.
Her perusal of him stopped just short of examining the powerful thighs that were encased in pale, skintight pantaloons; they were a reminder of parts of his anatomy she had no wish to recall, but the effort of ignoring them cost her: in the mirror she saw her cheeks flame.
Brett saw this too—an observation prompting low laughter as his eyes found hers in the mirror. But then he turned and bestowed the most gracious of smiles on the housekeeper.
"Thank you, Mrs. Busby. Your expert assistance is appreciated. That will be all for now, I think."
Mrs. Busby's cheerful countenance lit up like a chandelier at his praise. "Very good, your lordship," she chirped. "Come along, now, Annie." She addressed the maid who was busy giving Ashleigh's freshly washed hair a final stroke. "The lady's hair looks just lovely."
Annie giggled at the compliment and hurried to follow Mrs. Busby. Then the door closed behind them, leaving Ashleigh alone again with Brett.
Ashleigh eyed the closed door warily, then turned to her captor. "Why am I being kept prisoner here?" she asked in her most demanding tone—although if the truth were told, the inflection came with difficulty; she had never been accustomed to demanding anything in all her years at Hampton House; it was not an attitude that sat easily with her.
Brett strolled casually toward her until he stood immediately behind her chair at the dressing table. Giving no evidence he'd heard her question, he absently fingered the plain cotton collar of her dressing gown for several long moments. "Where on earth did you come by such an unattractive garment?" Then he glanced at the worn valise lying on the floor nearby. "In fact, all your meager belongings are beggarly. We'll order some new ones at once."
"Order some—"Ashleigh almost choked. "I—whatever are you talking about? You have no cause to—"
"What I am talking about, my beautiful little spitfire, is the outfitting of your person at a level that's suitable. All of my mistresses have been exquisite dressers."
"All of your..." Ashleigh's mouth gaped as she was hit by the impact of his implication. A moment passed while her stunned silence filled the room.
Then, suddenly, she was all action as the message cleared her brain and made way for the mounting storm that replaced her initial shock. With an angry outthrusting of hands, she pushed her chair away from the dressing table and jerked herself to her feet. She turned at once to face him, eyes blazing. "It will be a cold day in hell before I ever consent to being your mistress, Lord Westmont! There is only one thing I desire right now, and that's to get out of here and go home. I demand you release me—at once!" This time the tone of her voice demonstrated no unfamiliarity with a capacity to demand.
Brett's eyebrows rose slightly at her unexpected reaction. He'd been well aware of her resistance to his advances until now, but he'd succeeded in convincing himself it was still part of some game she was playing, most likely to hold out for more money than she'd originally been offered. Now he wasn't so sure.
Dozens of women he knew would have jumped at the chance to become his mistress, for he was well known to be a generous lover. And this even extended to his parting with a woman. Why, just this morning, as he'd begun his day riding over the estates, he'd made a mental note to pay off Pamela Marlowe with what some would term a staggering figure.
But here was this near child telling him quite unequivocably she was refusing his offer! It made him recall the doubts he'd momentarily entertained last night after she'd protested with that tale of hers about a mix-up.
He decided to put it to a final test. "Ashleigh," he said softly, "perhaps you haven't understood what my offer implies. A position as my mistress would mean a sizable increase in... income for you. I am known not to be ungenerous. Depending on the length of time we remain together, you could, I'm sure, many times triple or quadruple whatever it is Adams has offered you, and you wouldn't have to split it with your—"
"Not ungenerous! Hah!" Ashleigh's outrage was almost palpable. "Was it generous to ignore my innocent pleas and take my—my honor, on th-that piece of furniture there?" She gestured hysterically at the bed across the room. "Was it generous to hear my explanations of how I came to be here and then ignore them and proceed to—to rape me, sir, and not just once, but again and again?" Her voice had been rising with the rhetoric of each angry question, and she really began to get into the emotion of it now, her hands on her slim hips as she paced back and forth before him. "And what sort of generosity was it, pray tell, that induced you to leave me incarcerated in this chamber for the duration of the entire day?" She glared up at him with this final query, her small, pointed chin outthrust, her lips in a straight angry line.
Brett sighed as he looked down at this small figure of righteous, indignant fury. At last he was forced to admit the chit might have been telling the truth, for no woman in his ken would have dismissed an openly generous offer from the heir of the wealthiest duke in England, and she had just thrown it in his face!
He frowned. If Ashleigh was the innocent she had said she was—and now it seemed this was possible—just who and what else was she? No serving menial had the speech and manners she used—not to mention a level of education that would have prepared her to take the governess's position she claimed she'd been hired for. Some answers to these and a host of other questions he had about the girl were suddenly necessary, and he knew just the person to put them to. He'd seen Adams's carriage moving toward the Hall in the distance as he glanced out the window when he finished dressing a short while ago.
"Ashleigh... ah, Miss Sinclair," he said quietly, "it seems we just might have been operating under—ah—some kind of a misunderstanding after all. If that is so, you'll soon have my apologies, I can assure you; but for now, I want you to wait here a little while longer while I get to the bottom of this. Have a seat. I shan't be long." He whirled and headed for the door.
"Apologies!" Ashleigh cried. "I don't want your apologies! I only want to get away from here!"
But she found herself finishing this to the closed door Brett had shut behind him. Too late, she heard his key turn in the lock. He might be talking of apologies, but it was clear he didn't trust her a whit!
Brett hurried down the long hallway until he reached the grand staircase that led to the house's huge entrance hall and descended two steps at a time. As he neared the bottom, he saw Adams speaking to Mrs. Busby, and Mrs. Busby was cryi
ng.
"Adams, I need to speak with you—now, if you don't mind. Let's go to the library." Brett turned as if to go there.
"Lord Westmont, I beg of you, hold a moment," said Adams.
Brett turned to him, impatiently ignoring the softly weeping housekeeper. He was astonished to see tears in the older man's eyes as well.
"Lord Westmont," Adams repeated, "or perhaps I should say 'Your Grace.' Tragic news. The duke, your grandfather, is dead."
CHAPTER SEVEN
"It's a disgrace, that's what it is, Henry. His Grace, not yet cold in the grave, and Young Brett running up to London like he did, and while that poor girl sits here under lock and key! It's inhuman, too, if you ask me!"
Hettie Busby sat on a stool, in the butler's pantry at Ravensford Hall, addressing her husband. The couple had been employed in the duke's household for over thirty years—all of their adult lives—with Hettie beginning as a scullery maid, then rising to housekeeper, and Henry progressing from stable boy to trusted head groom through their tenure. During that time their loyalty to John, duke of Ravensford, and his family had been unquestioning. But now, as Hettie faced old Henry there was an unmistakably disloyal gleam in her eye.
Her husband saw it and sought to soothe her. "Now, 'Ettie, ye oughtn't t' be carryin' on so about th' young duke. 'E's 'ad a rough time of it 'imself, what wi' th' old duke dyin' and th' funeral and what all. Surely ye can understand th' man's grief?"
Hettie shook her head adamantly. "He has no right to keep that wee young thing prisoner here, Henry! Just as he had no right to—to do what he did to her before he left!"
"Now, 'Ettie—"
"And her a virgin, too, Henry! Ah, it's like to tear my heart out, listening to her pitiful crying when I pass that chamber door. I'm a woman, too, you know! And I ain't made of wood!"