by The Bargain
"Well, small matter," Brett was saying. "The real reason we flagged you in, Ashleigh, is that we saw some coaches winding their way along the post road when we reached that bluff a few minutes ago. It looks as though those guests I told you about are arriving. You did tell Lady Margaret we could be expecting them?"
They had turned their horses' heads toward the Hall and were moving along at an even pace. In the distance Ashleigh could see smoke rising from what she surmised was the chimney of the kitchen at Ravensford Hall.
"Lady Margaret had already retired when I went to inform her last night, Brett. But Lady Elizabeth overheard me speaking to her maid and said she would see to it that your great-aunt received the message." A frown of dismay crossed Ashleigh's brow as she recalled the viciousness of Elizabeth Hastings's response to her query about whether Lady Margaret could be disturbed. "She certainly has no business being disturbed by the likes of you, you cheap little flit! I shall see she gets His Grace's message in the morning!" Even now, as she recalled the hurtful words, Ashleigh's eyes clouded with humiliation.
Brett saw her look and could well guess its source. Yesterday, when he and Ashleigh had entered the Hall following their afternoon of horse training, they were met at the entrance by Margaret and Elizabeth Hastings. He'd been astounded to find his ill-remembered betrothed not only waiting for him, but firmly ensconced at his home as a semipermanent guest! He'd vaguely recollected a letter from Margaret while he was in London, telling him she'd proceeded with the planning of his nuptials, "with circumspection, owing to the fact that the family is in mourning," but he was positive she'd written nothing of Elizabeth's encampment in his domicile! Then, after he'd barely had time to digest this fact, he watched as Elizabeth proceeded to snub Ashleigh Sinclair in the most blatant manner. Moreover, he'd have had to be blind not to see the look of absolute hatred in his betrothed's eyes each time they fell on Ashleigh, which was mainly during a tedious and uncomfortable dinner. Ashleigh, he'd noticed, had carried herself graciously through the whole affair, making polite conversation when it was required of her and appearing to quite overlook the fact that neither Elizabeth nor Margaret deigned to speak directly to her at all, and carried on much as if she were invisible at the table.
But Brett had noticed the two spots of color staining Ashleigh's cheeks as the evening progressed, and had readily acquiesced when she asked to be excused early to look in on Megan, who'd taken to her chamber with a headache. The truth here, although Brett was unaware of it, was that Megan's eyes had glittered with a blood lust any time they looked upon Elizabeth and Margaret, prompting Ashleigh to make her promise to avoid encounters with them at all costs; the result was that Megan had "headaches" whenever household routine required that she spend any time with them.
"And just who is it ye're expectin', Yer Grace?" Megan asked now. "From the fine look o' those coaches, 'twould appear t' be a pretty fancy group o' visitors, I'd be thinkin'."
"Oh, no one that daunting," said Brett. "Just some friends from London. I do wonder how it is they all seem to be arriving at once, though. I expected various people to be trickling in over a period of days. I thought I recognized Lord Edwards's team of bays, though. Ah, that would be Lord Christopher Edwards, the earl of Ranleagh."
Ashleigh's head suddenly went up with a start at this news. "Lord Edwards, the earl of— Oh, dear! I just realized... I'm supposed to be acting as a hostess in just a few minutes!"
"That would seem to be an accurate assessment of matters, yes," Brett replied with some amusement. "Is there a problem with—"
"Oh, but—but, Your Grace!... Brett! Just look at me!" She glanced down at the hem of her blue and cream riding habit, which was soaked with the dew that had lain on the grass when they began their outing several hours earlier.
I am looking at you, lovely little witch, Brett thought, seizing on a term that had occurred to him late last night as he lay in his bed. While visions of his afternoon with her danced through his mind, he had been hard put to explain such a preoccupation. What was it about the girl that so entrapped his thoughts? Surely not her beauty, for he'd known scores of beautiful women before....
What, then? Was it the host of surprises that had consistently sprung up about her as he'd gotten to know her? It was as if she'd bewitched him, he'd finally decided, and the thought had not sat particularly well with him. He'd even told himself, as he was drifting off to sleep, that he'd do well to create some distance between them in the future—after all, she was a female....
And yet, when morning had dawned and the day promised to be a rare one, breezy and blue-skied, with the sun brightly shining, he found himself quickly dressed and sending a maid to inquire if Miss Sinclair would like to join him for a ride! Of course, the note that had come back, penned by Megan in coarse block letters—she had been illiterate until Ashleigh began to teach her how to read and write some months earlier, he'd learned—had informed him Miss Sinclair would indeed care to join him, provided she might be accompanied by Miss O'Brien and also that she might be allowed to ride the filly, Irish Night, which she would do with care, and only on the flats.
Brett smiled wryly as he recalled the tall redhead's audaciousness. But then he frowned as his mind returned to his own impromptu behavior. He was at a total loss to explain it.... Finally his helpless thoughts had seized on that first fanciful explanation of his midnight musings.... She was a witch, a beautiful, fascinating, blue-eyed witch....
But now he found himself grinning as Ashleigh ran a slender hand through her charmingly windblown curls and lamented her disheveled appearance.
"I cannot greet your guests looking like this, Brett! I simply cannot!" Her blue eyes pleaded with his.
Brett chuckled. "Very well," he told her, "you and Megan take the path that leads to the kitchens and use the rear entrance. I'll hold them off while you change. Come and join us in the front drawing room when you're ready."
"Oh, may I? Oh, Brett, thank you!" she chirped. "Oh, I can never thank you enough for understanding! I won't take too long—"
Brett's laughter intervened. "Yes, well, if you take any more time thanking me, you will be late. Off with you, now! I'll see you at the Hall."
The two women cantered off in the direction he'd indicated, and Brett sat and watched them go. His turquoise eyes fastened on the gleaming mass of raven curls the wind whipped about Ashleigh's slender back and shoulders, even as he reminded himself that this was the second decade of the nineteenth century, and rational men no longer believed in witchcraft.
* * * * *
Margaret Westmont's face was livid as she confronted her goddaughter amid the shambles the latter had made of her guest chamber at Ravensford Hall. Her blue eyes bored into those of the younger woman, who stood with outthrust, quivering lower lip beside a broken looking glass, but still Margaret did not speak; it was imperative that she assume control over the emotions that raged inside her, for if she did not, if she succumbed even one iota, like the creature who stood before her, all could be lost, and Margaret had no intention of losing... not ever, ever again.
"Well, you needn't look at me like that," Elizabeth told her in a querulous voice. "I—I had my reasons for—for this." She made a small gesture to indicate the broken bits of china, overturned chairs and other debris that gave mute testimony to the temper tantrum she'd indulged in during the past hour or so. She stepped forward a pace and began to wring her hands, adding. "Oh, for God's sake, say something, will you? You remind me of—of him, your—your brother. He used to gaze at me that way, even when I was a child and it was clear he didn't like me, and—stop it, I tell you! I am no child to be peered at in such a forbidding manner!"
"Then I suggest you cease behaving like one," came the barely controlled reply. Finding she could deal with the situation now, Margaret advanced farther into the room from the position she'd been maintaining near the door. She eyed the perfume-stained, disheveled pink satin dressing gown Elizabeth wore and made a grimace of distaste. "You look a si
ght. Where is your abigail?"
Elizabeth pouted. "I sent her away."
"Well, summon her back. We've work to do, and there isn't much time. Any moment now, a virtual horde of guests will be pulling up in—"
"Guests! Auntie Meg, how can you be talking of guests when I have been so sorely put upon? You just don't know what's happened! Your grandnephew—oh, I could kill him! You cannot realize—"
"Of course, I realize!" snapped Margaret, her anger threatening to return in full force. "The whole house realizes, you little idiot! And if you and I don't take steps to amend the damage, in a few moments all of London will begin to be privy to your indiscretion. Think on that, why don't you, but think on it while you complete your toilette and prepare to make a presentable appearance downstairs as the future duchess of Ravensford!"
Elizabeth appeared to shrink at the force of her words. "Auntie, surely you can't expect me to—"
With irate strides, Margaret closed the distance between them and seized her arm. "I can and I do!" She leaned forward until her face was just a few inches from Elizabeth's. "Now, you listen to me, you little fool! In just a few moments some of the most prestigious members of society will be filling the drawing room downstairs. How will it look if that little guttersnipe is the one to greet them at the door while their host's betrothed sits cowering in an upstairs chamber? Hadn't we agreed that the only way to demolish the effect of Brett's demented whim regarding that girl was to install you here at the Hall, so that your presence would overwhelm hers and perhaps even send her packing? Pull yourself together! In fifteen minutes I expect to see you dressed and downstairs."
"Fifteen minutes! Oh, Auntie, how can you be so hateful? I don't want to go downstairs! Have you seen the way he looks at her? Why, last night at dinner, he hardly took his eyes off her! How will that appear when others view it in—in my presence? I'd be humiliated beyond—"
"Silence! Sit down at that dressing table and begin repairing your face," ordered Margaret. "I shall call for your abigail." She hastened to the door and Elizabeth could hear her murmuring a few words to the footman who stood in the hallway. Then Margaret returned to her goddaughter, who had reluctantly seated herself at the dressing table.
"As for your worries about Brett's attentions to that little whore," Margaret told her quietly, "I have only one thing to say to you, and then I shall have to leave and play interim hostess myself, no matter what Brett and his bit of muslin say."
She was standing behind Elizabeth now and addressed her in the looking glass that hung wildly askew on the wall above the dressing table. "Most marriages, including those of most of the people soon to be arriving here, are never expected to be love matches. It has always been thus among our class, and I expect you to know this and remember it. It therefore follows that when a nobleman's eye wanders, it is accepted as quite the done thing. He did not marry for love, so he must be expected to have his little things on the side from time to time.
"To the guests downstairs, this Ashleigh Sinclair will, if you are capable of carrying off your part as I think you are, appear to be just one of those little things, no more. And no one will think twice on it. So His Grace's eye roams... so what? Was it not always so? Would a betrothal make any difference with a man like him? They'll hardly think so.
"Moreover, I think you'll find there are advantages to having a husband who slakes his lustful appetites elsewhere. Aside from the times your duty will necessitate your sharing the marriage bed to produce heirs, you will be largely freed from that obligation. That should, in the long run, be a welcome relief."
Margaret paused and tilted her head, sending a shrewd, assessing glance at the reflection in the mirror. "I have observed you closely in the years since you matured to womanhood, Elizabeth. You do not strike me as the sort who hungers for the pleasures of the flesh. Tell me... am I wrong in this?"
Elizabeth gazed at the blue eyes that were riveted to hers in the glass. Then her mind flitted briefly over the few times she'd been alone with someone of the opposite sex. She remembered the horrid, sweaty hands of Sir Peter Halifax, who tried to embrace her at a garden party last spring; she recalled the disgusting wetness of George Mowbry's lips as he stole a kiss at her last birthday ball; she thought of the nasty male scents of snuff and horses that she'd encountered on dozens of men she'd chatted or danced with in recent months, and her flesh began to feel as if it were suddenly crawling with vermin.
Resolutely returning her godmother's gaze, Elizabeth answered, "No, you are not wrong."
Margaret's smile oozed satisfaction, and she nodded knowingly. "I thought so. So, why the alarm over a husband-to-be and his wandering eye? Certainly, after what I've told you of our set, it cannot be from pride?
"You're young, Elizabeth, and perhaps, despite your successful season, you've lived in the country too long. Look around you today. See if you can't find evidence among our guests that what I speak is the truth. And go downstairs and hold your head proudly erect and act the aristocrat you are. You must!" Here Margaret's voice lowered and she peered more intently at the reflection in the mirror. "Need I remind you that everything we've planned depends on it?"
Elizabeth heard the hard edge of steel in her voice and shivered, then solemnly nodded.
"Good. Ah, that must be your abigail. I'll let her in and wait for you downstairs." She walked toward the door, then turned.
"And Elizabeth?"
"Yes?"
"Do not fail me."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
With a glass of sherry in his hand, Brett stood at the huge mantel in the drawing room and smiled wryly, his turquoise eyes roaming casually over the two-dozen guests who sat or stood in clusters here and there about the room. "Darnley," he said to the blond, heavyset young man standing near him, "the next time I'm fool enough to mention publicly I've a birthday coming up, stifle me with my own cravat, will you?"
Bruce Darnley chuckled. "Surprised you, did we, old chap? But, see here, surely you're not turned out over this? I mean, what are birthdays for, if not to have a few friends pop in to celebrate... you know, bend an elbow a bit, that sort of thing... nothing too elaborate."
Brett suppressed a guffaw. "Oh, no, nothing elaborate! Only a couple dozen men and women, dressed to the hilt and bent on several days' worth of mischief, I'll warrant. Nothing elaborate at all!"
"Now, Brett, dear," said a striking brunette with dark, almond-shaped eyes as she overheard their conversation. "You must know Pamela wasn't going to allow your birthday to pass without making some kind of a to-do! Why, it was just the other day when she said, 'I'll wager His Grace is going slinking off down to the country without allowing us to give him a proper send-off, and it's his birthday on the sixteenth, too! Why, we simply mustn't allow him to celebrate it alone!' And before you knew it, half of us at Lord Edgemont's dinner party recalled your leaving an open invitation to come down and visit you here in Kent, and everyone began to make plans to go. After all, Your Grace," she simpered, "being in mourning shouldn't signify that one stops living himself, should it?"
"Hmm," replied Brett absently. He was eyeing the graceful, elegant form of an amber-eyed, honey-haired woman in green as she nodded and laughed at some remarks made by her two gentlemen companions on the sofa across the room. So, this was Pamela's idea after all. He might have known she wouldn't give up that easily. Damn! Now he'd have to spend the next several days being polite to her while not allowing one jot of encouragement to shade his behavior! How in hell was he going to manage that?
Just then, he saw several heads turn, and following their gaze, beheld Ashleigh Sinclair entering the room with a footman at her heels bearing a tray of light refreshments. She was an absolute vision in a filmy aquamarine cotton day gown with matching ribbons woven into the lustrous curls that were arranged atop her head. She paused for a moment and caught his eye; at the same time her face broke into an enchanting smile, revealing the single dimple in her left cheek, and suddenly Brett knew exactly how he was going to manage
the difficult business of curbing Lady Pamela Marlowe!
"Egad!" exclaimed Bruce Darnley, his eyes fixed on Ashleigh. "Where, in all of Heaven, did you find that? Brett, old man, who is she?"
But Brett didn't reply, for he was busy making his way across the room to connect with his hired hostess, a smile of anticipation curving his mouth.
"Why, haven't you heard?" the almond-eyed brunette asked young Lord Darnley. "Brett has a new... ward. All of London's abuzz over it. Surely the gossip cannot have gotten past you?"
"New... ward?" Darnley looked bemused for a moment. "Egad, Vanessa, you don't mean to say—"
"Oh, no, no! Nothing like that," Vanessa quickly assured him. It was possible, the brunette surmised, that the situation could, after all, be innocent—the girl could indeed be his ward and nothing more—and if this were so, she had no wish to be the one on whom blame was cast, should His Grace learn of unsavory gossip; Brett Westmont was known for his fierce temper, and Vanessa had no wish to incur his wrath!
"But you must agree," she continued to Lord Darnley, "the girl is a beauty, and, well, you know how His Grace attracts beautiful women."
Suddenly Vanessa's eyes searched the room for Pamela Marlowe. Finding her intensely absorbed in the scene of greeting that was taking place between the duke and his ward, Vanessa allowed a catty smile to curve her lips. "Oh, this is going to be too good," she purred, remembering all too well a series of insults she'd suffered at Lady Pamela's hands over the years. "Pamela is about to meet her comeuppance, Bruce dear, and we have a front-row seat!"
Ashleigh had watched Brett approach with a tremor of anticipation; he was being so kind to her since his return, she could scarcely believe it. Indeed, the man who now bent over her hand in courteous greeting was so far removed from the demon she'd first encountered, she half expected him to revert to his old form at any moment, and each time he smiled and spoke gently to her, as now, she found herself both relieved and warmed by the encounter.