by The Bargain
Ashleigh turned from the window and sighed. From what she had just seen, Elizabeth Hastings appeared every inch a lady, the epitome of the best the English aristocracy had to offer. Tall and willowy, she wore her pale, flaxen beauty with an assurance that proclaimed to all who viewed it that she was a pampered darling of her class. From the top of her fashionable blue bonnet to the tips of her elegantly shod, satin-slippered feet, she had stood before the entrance to Ravensford Hall as if she already owned it; the regal air of her posture, the aristocratic manner in which she held her head, her very walk as she moved toward the house—all bespoke an attitude of assumed acceptance of grace and privilege that had been bred into her lineage long before she was born, and been taken as her due from the time she had been in the cradle.
How could she, Ashleigh Sinclair, an orphan who had worked as a menial in a brothel, even begin to deal with the day-to-day presence of such a creature? And especially with the lady knowing how she had come to be employed here! Oh, it was almost too much to contemplate, let alone act on!
She glanced down at the buttercup-yellow, sprigged muslin day gown she wore and thought briefly of the smile of pleasure it had brought when she viewed it in the cheval glass this morning after Megan had helped her dress. With matching yellow primroses woven into her carefully braided coronet with a cascade of curls tumbling out of it and down her back, she had thought herself more than passably pretty and ever so chic. But now, with the image of the elegantly gowned noblewoman who waited downstairs firmly entrenched in her mind, she felt, by comparison, like a callow schoolgirl about to brave her first grown-up tea.
Oh, if only Megan were here! But, for some reason, Lady Margaret had arranged for her presence elsewhere at this time, having sent word through Mrs. Busby that Megan was to meet Mr. Busby at the stables for the purpose of assisting him in the selection of a pair of suitable mounts for her and Ashleigh to use while they lived here. Ashleigh had thought little of the message at the time, but Megan, quick to sense something in the directive, had laughed, saying, "Ah, 'tis a clever old crone she is, t' be herdin' me out o' sight when the favored princess comes t' call. 'Twill be difficult enough havin' t' explain yer presence t' the likes o' Lady Blueblood, but how d' ye think she'd explain me? Aye, Her High-and-Mightiness knows what I be, darlin', make no mistake about that," Megan had continued. "I have it on the authority o' the household's highly efficient servants' grapevine that the Lady Margaret sent a footman t' Hampton House the day we arrived with some questions about me and me illustrious past. Wirra, but I'd love t' have seen the expression on her face when she received all her answers!"
Ashleigh gave a small, rueful smile at the recollection of Megan's words. Her friend's easygoing manner and witty sense of humor had been the mainstay and saving grace behind much that she'd had to deal with in recent years, and had taught her a great deal about meeting life's difficulties and making the best of them. But there was certainly nothing of this Megan, the one she knew and called her friend, that Lady Margaret could have learned of, or guessed at, from the inquiries she'd made. Indeed, it would have been difficult even for Ashleigh herself to have told a stranger what the tall redhead was really like. How could anyone, in a few short words, paint a picture of a woman whose unfortunate choice of profession was the least of what she was?
And even where Megan's career at Hampton House was concerned, there was so much that ought to be told—and wouldn't be—of how she'd come to be there. How did one explain to an inquiring stranger what it was like to be the terrified daughter of an impoverished Irish widow with many young mouths to feed? How did one express the half-told stories Megan had allowed to come to light over the years, of what it had been like to be sixteen when your adored father died and you found yourself the eldest of ten children, and going to bed at night to the sounds of the younger ones crying themselves to sleep because they were hungry? Would a stranger care that most of Megan's hard-earned coins had been sent back to Ireland to keep alive the loved ones she had left behind? And even if someone had taken the trouble to try to find out such things, there was no likelihood that anyone at Hampton House could have told him, for Megan rarely spoke to its inhabitants of her past. The little that Ashleigh knew had only slipped out here and there during their friendship, until, by bits and pieces, Ashleigh had at last begun to understand.
Ashleigh shook her head, and her lips twisted into a wry shadow of a smile as she thought of the two women downstairs and the impossibility of their ever understanding the likes of Megan O'Brien. And with her next thought, the smile disappeared. Indeed, what was the likelihood of their ever understanding her? Brett had explained to Lady Margaret how it was she had come to be in this situation; but had it mattered or even been believed? And if Lady Margaret was so far from being inclined to accept her presence here, wasn't the possibility of Lady Elizabeth's doing so even more remote? "...She has expressed a desire to meet you," the note had said. Why? Was she curious about a creature foolish enough to allow herself to be so compromised? Would she gawk at Ashleigh, would she—?
Suddenly Ashleigh stopped and considered where her thoughts were leading her. Grab hold of yourself, Ashleigh Sinclair! she scolded. All this worrying will certainly not help the matter, and perhaps it's even unnecessary. It could be that Elizabeth Hastings is a warm, compassionate person, ready to meet and accept you on friendly terms. After all, truly, why else would she express an interest in meeting you? Yes, fix your thoughts on that. Her wanting to meet you is a positive sign. All you need do is behave graciously and everything will be just fine. You'll—
At that moment there came a knock at the door, and Ashleigh took just a second to paste a smile of what she hoped looked like confidence on her face before she opened it. "Yes?"
A liveried footman whom she recognized as the older son of the Busbys made a small bow. "You are expected in the Blue Room, Miss Sinclair," he said in words spoken so carefully Ashleigh suspected they'd been rehearsed.
She smiled at the young man's earnestness, knowing he'd been promoted to this position only a short while ago and was trying his best to look and sound like a footman and not the stable boy he'd been. He looked so uncomfortable in his new clothes, Ashleigh felt sorry for him, but she fought to keep this from showing. "Thank you, Jonathan," was all she said, and then followed him downstairs.
The blue drawing room of Ravensford Hall was a large, magnificently furnished chamber more than forty feet wide and half again as long. Undoubtedly receiving its name from the blue-damask-covered walls and perhaps the predominance of blue in the Savonnerie carpet that was an elegant feast for the eye, with its cool colors and soft, exotically shaped patterns, the vast chamber successfully blended the splendors of Renaissance treasures with native English elegance and charm. Complementing its generous scale was the grandeur of its focal point: an enormous marble and gilt rococo fireplace, complete with overmantel mirror and elaborate frieze above, and an Italian tapestry fire screen below. Flanking this was a pair of massive ebony and gold ormolu cabinets. Paintings by Tintoretto, Van Dyck and Canaletto rested comfortably on the walls beside others by Lely, Reynolds and Turner. The ceiling was a study in the classical arabesque mode, its ivory and gilt-toned decoration echoing the colors of the cut-velvet patterned draperies hanging at the floor-to-ceiling windows.
But despite this impressive, formal ornamentation, the room had a warm, inviting look to it, and Ashleigh decided it must be because of the small, random groupings of the Adam furniture that filled much of its space. These clusters of chairs and tables seemed to invite intimate conversation, and she began to breathe in a more relaxed fashion when she stepped forward into the room and beheld Lady Margaret and Lady Elizabeth in such a setting.
Jonathan Busby had been replaced at the doorway by Jameson, the austere-looking butler who announced, "Miss Sinclair, my lady," and then backed out of the room, pulling the double doors shut after him.
"Thank you for coming, Miss Sinclair," said Lady Margaret from the chair
where she remained seated. "Please come forward."
As Ashleigh approached the two women, she had a moment to observe them. Lady Margaret wore the black of mourning in the form of a plain cotton day gown with narrow, tight-fitting sleeves and a high neckline. Unrelieved by ornamentation of any kind, it served to call attention to her face and hair. Indeed, the latter, which was snow-white and piled atop her head in thick, natural waves, seemed an ornament of sorts in itself. Her long, narrow face retained something of what once must have been an arresting beauty, for the features were even and well balanced over a bone structure that was strong and better able than most to withstand the ravaging effects of age. But it was a pale face, almost ghostly in its lack of color, except for the piercing blue eyes that were its focal point and were presently fixed on Ashleigh in an acute, assessing gaze.
To Lady Margaret's right, in a matching armchair sat Elizabeth Hastings. If Ashleigh had thought Brett's fiancée beautiful from her glimpse at the window, now she was positively overwhelmed. Lady Elizabeth had to be the finest specimen of female perfection she'd ever seen. Hair so pale in its flaxen silkiness that it appeared almost silver under her ice-blue bonnet, curled charmingly about a perfect oval face. Widely spaced, silvery-gray eyes gazed coolly at Ashleigh from beneath delicate, silvery arched brows in a porcelain-smooth complexion. Her small nose, slightly aquiline and finely boned, formed a perfect counterpoint to her soft, delicately curved mouth, which was the cupid's bow fashion loved. Like. Lady Margaret, she held her tall, willowy frame regally erect in her seat, never allowing her back to touch that of the chair. Her ice-blue, softly flowing Empire day gown clung to her slender figure in graceful folds, and it was smartly accented with rows of delicate lace at the square, low neckline and at the edges of its soft little puffed sleeves. Finally, making the definitive statement as to her wealth and class, there was her jewelry. A pair of large, perfectly matched, diamond-encircled sapphires studded her earlobes, echoed by the sapphire pendant she wore about her neck on a fine silver chain. Wealth, elegance, breeding—they were all there, and with this fact staring her blatantly in the face, Ashleigh's impulse was to turn and run—not only out of the room and away from these two women so obviously far above her on the social scale, but out of Ravensford Hall and all they represented—never to return.
But, of course, fleeing was not possible, and so she merely drew to a halt before the two, bent her knee in a brief curtsy and softly murmured, "You wished to speak with me, Lady Margaret?"
"Actually, no," Lady Margaret replied abruptly.
Ashleigh's downcast eyes, which had been studying the carpet patterns in her nervousness, flew upward to meet the old woman's. "I—I beg your pardon, my lady?" she asked with some surprise.
Lady Margaret's pale lips curved into a line that was more a sneer than a smile. "My intent," she intoned loftily, "from the moment you first set foot in this house, Miss Sinclair, has been never to exchange more words with you than I absolutely must... or none, actually, if I were to have my way. But my godchild here, Lady Elizabeth Hastings, persuaded me to arrange a meeting. I believe I explained as much in my little missive earlier." Ignoring Ashleigh's disbelieving gasp, she turned to Elizabeth. "Well, pet, what do you think?"
Elizabeth Hastings had been carefully scrutinizing Ashleigh from the moment she entered the drawing room, and she was far from happy with what she saw. Instead of some overdone, cheaply dressed little tart, the young woman who stood before her was a raving, elegantly accoutered beauty! She'd instantly recognized the stamp of Madame Gautier's handiwork in the graceful design of the yellow day gown. That miserable wretch, Brett, had obviously seen to the chit's wardrobe! And the eye-catching loveliness of the girl was almost more than she could bear! This was no worn-out trollop fetched from some back-street brothel. Anyone could see the creature radiated freshness and, yes, innocence from every pore. Those shiny raven tresses played spellbinding counterpoint to the delicate peaches-and-cream expanse of her flawless skin; that perfect, straight little nose was just the nose she'd always coveted; and those eyes! Their deep blue depths put all Elizabeth's sapphires to shame!
As she continued to eye Ashleigh's face with its fragile, elfin beauty, a deep-seated pool of jealousy began to bubble and seethe within Elizabeth; as she glanced at Ashleigh's petite, perfectly proportioned body with its generously swelling breasts and long, lissome limbs, a cancerous envy filled her being; as she beheld the sweet openness of Ashleigh's expression, she knew she hated her and would not rest until the little bitch was out of her life—and Brett's—forever.
Tearing her eyes away from Ashleigh, she turned to Lady Margaret. "How much of a wardrobe has he bought her?"
Margaret shrugged. "There were several trunks with her when she arrived, and she had almost nothing during her first stay."
"Just as I thought," Elizabeth seethed, "and Madame Gautier does not come cheap!"
"No," Margaret replied, "but I suggest you cease troubling yourself on that account, pet. His Grace can easily afford it. It is the girl's presence here that we are about. How are we to deal with it?"
Ashleigh stood in stunned silence as she listened to their exchange. They were discussing her like... like some object—a stick of furniture or the like! It was as if she weren't even present in the room! Why, they hadn't even asked her to sit down, but instead, kept her standing here before them while they scrutinized every inch of her and picked her apart with their eyes! Was this what fine ladies of the English aristocracy were all about? If so, she was glad she'd lost her title and its so-called advantages years ago. Oh, dear God! What was she to do?
"I never actually thought Brett favored brunettes," Elizabeth was saying, "and she seems a bit small for his tastes, don't you think?"
Margaret smiled thinly and arched one white eyebrow. "Surely, my dear, you know of his rakish reputation by now! Tall or short, blond or brunette, young or not-so-young, His Grace has had them all, and quite indiscriminately, I'm told. Only his grandfather failed to learn of my grandnephew's reputation with women, and sometimes now I wonder if it wasn't a mistake on my part, not to correct his ignorance." She shrugged. "Of course, in recent years his health was failing, and the physicians warned that any great shock—well, that's water beneath the bridge. Tell me, have you seen enough? Shall I dismiss her?"
Ashleigh wanted to scream. She'd never encountered such base rudeness in all her life! Even at Hampton House, where there was jealousy and competition aplenty, the rivalries had been forthright and fairly open. Why, even Monica had addressed her as a person! But this! This was a cold and brutal cruelty, calculated, she was sure, to put her in her place— which was nowhere, but certainly out of this house, if these two women had anything to say about it!
"There's just one little thing..." Elizabeth was saying. She leaned forward in her chair and reached for the skirt of Ashleigh's gown. "Hmm, the sprigged muslin is of a superior quality, but there's something about the way the skirt hangs that isn't—" she was fingering the gown's material now, as Ashleigh watched in silent apprehension "—quite as it should be," Elizabeth continued. "Perhaps... there!" With a jerk of her wrist, she yanked at a fold in Ashleigh's skirt and a sharp ripping sound cut the air.
Horrified, Ashleigh looked down to see half of the front skirt of the lovely yellow gown torn from its high waistline and sagging to the carpet. Instantly she looked up and met the snidely smiling, cold-eyed visage of Elizabeth Hastings. The look in the silvery eyes was pure hatred.
"Ah, well, what a pity," Margaret said. "It was such a lovely gown. Perhaps you can have your, ah, abigail repair it. Good day, Miss Sinclair."
Hot tears stung Ashleigh's eyes as she gazed for a moment in stunned horror at the two women before her. Then, a sob tearing at her throat, she picked up the damaged folds of her skirt, whirled and ran from the room.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Brett relaxed in his saddle, allowing Raven to find his own way on the path that followed the lake along the western edge of Rave
nsford Hall's vast acreage. It wasn't the most direct route back to the Hall, but the midsummer air was cooler here in the afternoons, and the lake a lovely, refreshing sight. It was especially reviving to one who'd had a surfeit of the hot, stifling air of London's drawing rooms and the humid confines of its paved streets and narrow alleyways.
A frown of annoyance creased Brett's brow as he thought of the difficulty he'd had getting away this visit. After all, it was the height of the warm season when most of London's inhabitants with the ability to do so headed out of the city to their country estates or to resorts such as Bath, or Brighton, by the seaside. Brett smiled to himself, thinking of Brighton, for it had been the lure of that favored pleasure resort of the prince regent that had at last freed him from the relentless rounds of meetings at Carlton House and Whitehall during the past several weeks. Count on the attraction of luxury to lure Prinny away from the boring demands of rulership!
The frown settled back in place as Brett reviewed the reasons the prince and his ministers had been reluctant to allow him to return to Kent. He could be more forgiving if the endless meetings and conferences had demanded the type of national security work he'd been involved with in recent years. But what was it that had all the government agencies and most of the peerage jumping and feverishly bustling about? A major treaty? No. A battle campaign? Hardly, for the fighting in Europe was over. No, it was the unbelievably frivolous business of a round of celebrations to honor the national and international heroes of the victory over Bonaparte. There had been party after party, ball after ball, speeches, fireworks, parades and banquets, and Brett's presence had been required at all of them. Damn, he swore to himself, it would be a cold day in hell before he welcomed the sight of cheering crowds again, no matter how bloody patriotic the occasion!