Sattler, Veronica

by The Bargain

  "You're lovelier each time I see you, sweet," Brett was saying.

  Ashleigh dimpled. "I'm sure it's just because my... 'setting' has been changed."

  Brett shook his head. "There is a roomful of beautiful women here today, and not one of them can hold a candle to you, no matter what you might be wearing."

  Feeling the heat rise to her cheeks, Ashleigh sought to change the subject. "I hope I wasn't overly late. I tried to hurry as much as I could, but Megan was ever so stubborn about making me sit still for a 'proper coiffure,' and—"

  Brett's chuckle cut her off. "Think nothing of it, sweet. Your delayed entrance merely served to attract the notice of everyone in this room, judging by the looks you're getting, and if I know that Irishwoman, she probably calculated it just about right."

  Glancing about to indeed find all eyes in her direction, Ashleigh blushed, then hastened to exclaim, "Oh, but Megan wouldn't—"

  "There you are, darling," a purring female voice broke in. "I should have known you would have gone straight to your guests without changing from your riding clothes, but I fear I'm late because I searched ever so long for you upstairs."

  Brett and Ashleigh turned to find Elizabeth Hastings walking toward them, a confident smile on her aristocratic face. Beside her, looking every inch the grande dame, strode Lady Margaret.

  "Yes," added Margaret. "Your poor betrothed was hoping the two of you could greet your guests together, Brett, dear, rather as an informal means of making your engagement known."

  "Really?" Brett replied, his mouth turned up in a mocking smile. "I would have thought Lady Elizabeth was too busy, ah, rearranging her chamber, to even notice we had guests."

  Ashleigh suppressed a giggle as she caught the look of outrage in Elizabeth's eyes. She and Megan had heard the news of her ladyship's temper tantrum when they returned from their ride; and so, she now realized, had Brett.

  "Suppose," said Margaret, her tone steely and disapproving, "you take you fiancée about the room and introduce her as such, Your Grace. It is, I think, high time we were making the news public."

  "As you wish, Grand-tante," Brett murmured with an overly polite, exacting bow to Margaret. Then, as he took Elizabeth's hand and placed it on his bent arm, he whispered to Ashleigh, "Have no fear of being deserted, my dear. Half the gentlemen in the room are on their way to the rescue."

  And as Ashleigh looked up, she found he was right. Several gentlemen she'd spied earlier seemed, with Brett's departure, to be making a beeline in her direction. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Lady Margaret retreat with a satisfied smile on her face, but then she had no time to think about anything else, for a crush of well-groomed male bodies surrounded her.

  "Allow me to introduce myself," said a tall, slender young man with light brown hair. "I'm William Rhodes, marquis of Wright. And you are—?"

  "Come, come, Will, where have you been?" said a shorter man with straight blond hair and a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes. "This young woman is the buzz of the ton without having met most of it—yet. Miss Sinclair, isn't it?"

  For the second time in as many minutes, Ashleigh had her response snatched from her before she could begin.

  "By Jove, yes! Ashleigh Sinclair, Jersey told me! Lovely name, Ashleigh, but not as lovely as its owner, eh?" This commentary was being put forth by an older man, perhaps in his forties, who introduced himself as Lord Selkirk.

  Ashleigh smiled politely at all of them and was just beginning to think her head would spin off her shoulders if she had to remember one more name when a tall, incredibly handsome, dark-haired man bent over her ear and murmured, "If you've had enough of this crush, I think I can arrange a graceful escape."

  Looking up to meet a pair of green eyes smiling down at her, Ashleigh smiled back and gave a tentative nod.

  "Lady Margaret has announced luncheon being served on the terrace, gentlemen, so, if you don't mind..." He offered Ashleigh his arm and proceeded to lead her away.

  Amid several grumbles from her band of admirers, Ashleigh heard him say, "I hope you don't mind, but I thought you looked rather overwhelmed just then."

  "I think I was," Ashleigh nodded, then looked up at him. "But, sir, I believe you have the advantage...."

  A warm chuckle met her ears. "I guess that makes me just as bad as the rest of them. The name's Edwards... Christopher Edwards. And I hear you're Ashleigh Sinclair."

  "Oh, you're the earl of Ranleagh!" she exclaimed.

  Another chuckle. "I see my reputation preceded me. Nothing too terrible, I hope."

  "Oh, no, not at all! It's just that I heard His Grace mention you when we were riding earlier and he thought he recognized your team."

  Christopher grinned. "He ought to recognize them! They used to be his. I won them from him at whist last year."

  Ashleigh's eyes went huge. "You won them...?" She had heard that high-stakes gambling was common among the rich and titled, but the actual specifics of such a wager amazed her. From the looks of that team of bays, they must be worth a small fortune!

  "But just to be honest about it," the earl was saying, "I must confess he won at least as much back from me the next night—probably more, come to think on it."

  They were walking through the conservatory now, following the lead of their host who, with Lady Elizabeth firmly attached to his arm, was ushering them toward the open French doors that led to a wide brick terrace with a slope of immaculately tended gardens beyond. Hedges of box yew curved symmetrically about well-clipped green lawns, and everywhere the eye chanced to glance, flowers bloomed, competing with one another in a riot of color, some in well-tended beds, others in large clay pots and urns, still more against strategically placed trellises and stone walls.

  On the terrace itself, several tables had been set up, each covered with snowy damask cloths and bearing tableware of paper-thin porcelain and heavy, ornate silver. Among these, footmen rushed to and fro, bearing trays of food and drink.

  Suddenly Ashleigh wondered who had put all of this together on such short notice, and with a guilty start, realized that perhaps she ought to have been involved. But just then, as she looked toward an open door leading into a wing of the house that abutted the terrace at one end, she spied Jameson, the butler, conversing animatedly with a tall, redheaded female figure. Megan, of course. What would I do without her? she thought for what seemed like the hundredth time since she'd come here.

  Lady Margaret, however, seemed to have taken charge of the seating arrangements, for Ashleigh saw her directing the footmen toward various people who were led to specific tables. One of the footmen now approached her and the earl.

  "Begging your pardons, Miss Sinclair, your lordship, but her ladyship and His Grace would have you sit at the table with the blue floral arrangement. If you will kindly follow me...?"

  Ashleigh saw Christopher glance at the table where yet another footman was in the process of seating the marquis of Wright and a honey-haired woman in green whom Ashleigh hadn't met yet.

  "We'll find our own way to the table in just a moment, thank you," said Christopher, dismissing the footman with a nod. Then he turned to Ashleigh. "I might as well warn you, my dear. Judging by the look on Pamela's face, we're not likely to have a pleasant time of it over luncheon. She's in a snit over the news of Brett's engagement."

  Ashleigh glanced toward their table and, in particular, at the beauty in green and saw that Ranleagh spoke the truth. If looks could kill, anyone in the honey blonde's line of vision would have been fodder for the graveyard right then. "Pamela...?" she questioned tentatively.

  "Why, yes, my dear," Christopher replied as he took her arm, "Lady Pamela Marlowe, Brett Westmont's mistress."

  Ashleigh summoned all her resources to keep from gaping as she digested Christopher's words and allowed him to lead her to their table. His mistress! At that instant all of the warming thoughts about her employer that had been building during the past twenty-four hours fled, and she was filled with an abhorrence of the ma
n, nearly as keen as that felt with her original assessment. What kind of a man was he, she fumed, to be capable of entertaining his mistress in his home on the very day he made his betrothal known? Rake and blackguard came to mind, but neither seemed to do adequate justice to Brett Westmont.

  As she was being helped to her seat, she had a moment to glance at the table where a politely smiling Brett bent his chestnut head in Elizabeth's direction and nodded at something she said. He looked totally at his ease, cool and unruffled, as if such a situation were daily routine, and Ashleigh had to glance away quickly, lest her face reveal the repugnance she felt. Oh, the conceit, the arrogance of the man!

  But then she had little time left to contemplate this latest revelation, for Christopher was introducing her to Lady Pamela.

  "Ah, yes, so you're the mysterious ward we heard of in London." Lady Pamela smiled, but the smile never reached her eyes, which were cold and brittle, like the amber they resembled. "I must say I'm taken aback by you, Miss Sinclair. From Lady Jersey's remarks, I had thought you to be a young miss not yet out of the schoolroom."

  "But Pamela," the marquis broke in, "I hardly see where Jersey's words can be faulted. She is 'a beautiful child, too exquisite to be ignored,' if you ask me." He smiled at Ashleigh. "Delighted to be seated at table with you m'dear."

  Ashleigh blushed and smiled shyly at the marquis, none of which was missed by Christopher Edwards. The handsome earl was thinking he'd never seen beauty such as hers before, perfect in every delicate line and curve, yet awash in fresh, young innocence. Moreover, there was just the barest hint of mystery about her accruing not only from the as-yet-vague circumstances of her becoming Ravensford's ward, but from some quiet aura about the girl as well. One saw it in the depths of her eyes at times, or in the subtle tilt of her head as she listened, and at moments, in her smile, which would then bear the fleeting suggestion of sadness in its curve.

  Christopher Edwards was a connoisseur of many things, including fine food and wines, blooded horseflesh, good music and art, but, most of all, he was an appreciator of beautiful and unusual women. Along with Ravensford, Byron, and one or two others, he was known among the members of the ton as a man who sent female pulses racing, and he lived up to this reputation with a flair that kept the gossips busy. Moreover, Ranleagh enjoyed the role he played, and play it he did— to the hilt.

  And just now it was Ashleigh Sinclair he sought to play it with. She was the most refreshing piece of femininity he'd come across in many a day, and he couldn't believe his luck at the opportunity presented to him. He'd seen the way Ravensford's eyes had fastened on the girl when she appeared earlier; it was almost as if he caressed her with the slightest glance. But the duke had other commitments to keep, and Christopher was not above moving into the breach. If Brett Westmont chose to overload his barge, that was his problem!

  Ashleigh had noticed the attention the earl was paying her from the outset and found herself instantly charmed, but also a bit wary; that he was a handsome, sophisticated gentleman, she was well aware, and it was these very qualities that caused her to maintain her reserve, for she had already learned the hard way that, where the rich and titled were concerned, things were not always what they seemed and one could get trampled in the process of dealing too openly with them.

  But now, as she once again caught sight of Brett Westmont and his fiancée out of the corner of her eye and at the same time noticed Lady Pamela glaring at them, Ashleigh had a notion to toss her reserve to the wind. So he thought he was the one to play games, did he? Well, she could play a game or two of her own, and Brett Westmont could go to the devil!

  With her brightest smile, Ashleigh turned to the man beside her. "Tell me something of yourself and the life you lead, my lord. I am most anxious to learn all about it...."

  As Brett listened politely to yet another boring snippet of gossip from Elizabeth, his eyes traveled beyond the white floral centerpiece atop their table until they came to rest on a table where the flowers were blue. He ignored the damning glance of Pamela Marlowe as his gaze swept swiftly past her, and he focused on the obvious display that was taking place nearby. Christopher Edwards was leaning closely, even intimately, Brett thought, toward Ashleigh and favoring her with his most charming smile. In the next instant he saw him whisper something briefly in Ashleigh's ear, to which, a few seconds later, she responded with a delighted peal of laughter. And in yet the next moment he saw the two of them looking into each other's eyes and smiling as if they shared some delicious secret.

  Suddenly Brett found himself seized by a wave of anger so fierce, he scarcely recognized it as such. What was the matter with him? He'd seen Ranleagh flirt with women of his acquaintance before; why, in the case of a ball a fortnight ago, where it had involved Pamela, he'd even welcomed it! Yes, a small voice told him, but you are anxious to be quit of Pamela, whereas with Ashleigh...

  Whereas with Ashleigh, what? Just exactly what were his feelings in that regard? Briefly Brett reviewed his acquaintance with Ashleigh Sinclair, finishing with a close mental scrutiny of the past twenty-four hours. Slowly—for he was loathe to probe too deeply—he found himself admitting that a change had begun to take place in his regard for the girl. But what did that mean? That he was attracted to her physically? This he had no trouble accepting; lust was a familiar companion in his life by now. But his lustful pursuits had never demanded exclusivity in the women he used before now. And besides, he himself had put Ashleigh off-limits; she was not to be touched by him again. So why was it that he suddenly felt himself gripped by— Good God in Heaven! he thought; I cannot possibly be jealous!

  But even as he denied it, a peal of merriment from Ashleigh Sinclair, in response to something Christopher was sharing with her, sent a hot flush of rage through Brett's body. Knowing he'd never before experienced such emotions, he chose to give them a form he did recognize. Ashleigh Sinclair was a female, wasn't she? And all females practiced to deceive, regardless of the innocence they presented on the surface. Well, this was one female that wouldn't get to him!

  Brett relaxed in his chair. There, he'd found the problem and neatly handled it. Now he could be himself again and enjoy his guests, even enjoy his birthday.

  But as he glanced again across the terrace and saw Ashleigh bestow her dazzling smile on Ranleagh, a small voice mocked, Can you?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Once luncheon was concluded, Brett, with Elizabeth clinging to his arm, moved among the guests to make suggestions as to how they might wish to spend their time until the formal dinner, which would be served at eight and be followed by dancing in the Hall's ballroom upstairs. Some of the guests merely opted to retire to their chambers—which by now had been aired and made ready, to Chauncey Jameson's utter relief—some chose to avail themselves of the duke's excellent choice of mounts in the stables and go riding, while yet others decided to remain downstairs and chat in one of the drawing rooms or to wander casually through the gardens leading down from the terrace.

  It was this last that Christopher Edwards suggested to Ashleigh as a means of passing the time, and as it was such a perfect day for being out of doors, she agreed. They strolled along a pebbled path flanked by hedgerows of boxwood and yew, chatting about subjects ranging from the unusual spell of fair weather Kent was enjoying to the beauty of the gardens, but all the while Ashleigh had the distinct impression it was not the weather or the gardens that piqued the handsome nobleman's interest, but she herself. Frequently she would look up to find Christopher's eyes on her, their green depths lit by a glimmer she could by no stretch of her wits attribute to the mundane topics on which they conversed.

  As for Ashleigh, she found this attention flattering and the earl a comfortable companion, but that was the extent of it; no pulses fluttered in her breast and no sighs escaped her lips. The earl was obviously a man many considered a charmer, but he left her feeling singularly uncharmed. Still, he was good company in a social setting where she knew almost no one, and for that she was
grateful.

  They were approaching a place where the path widened and then gave way to a cleared, grassy space where a few garden benches rested, and here they heard several voices. Looking up, Ashleigh spied a small group of unfamiliar people who sat and conversed while two she did recognize stood nearby.

  The latter were Lady Pamela Marlowe and the marquis of Wright—who, halfway through luncheon had insisted she call him Will—and as she and the earl approached, the marquis merely smiled a greeting to them.

  The reason for the marquis's silence seemed to be his reluctance to interrupt the discourse of a serious-looking young man who was seated near them and talking in animated fashion to an equally serious-looking young woman on the opposite bench.

  "And so you see, Mary," the young man was saying, "in the end we may view history as nothing more than the ongoing struggle between liberty and tyranny, with sometimes one in the ascendency, and sometimes the other. In the periods of democratic ascendency—for example, the Golden Age of ancient Greece—culture and literature flourish, while in the ages of tyranny—for instance, during the decline and fall of Rome—they stagnate and die."

  The young woman addressed as Mary nodded. "History is cyclical, then? Oh, Percy, how depressing! If that were true, we might now merely view the great advances of liberty in the American and French revolutions as being subject to a decline with the first strong countermovement—"

  "No, no, my dear—not cyclical, but spiral!" her companion exclaimed. "The forces of freedom and progress, I feel certain, are now in so secure a position that no oppression, however bitter, can detain them from a relentless and inevitable climb to a higher social order."

  Mary smiled. "An egalitarian social order such as my father envisioned in his Political Justice, of course."

  Christopher bent to whisper in Ashleigh's ear, very softly, so as not to interrupt the serious discussion they were witnessing. "That would be the 1793 publication of the social philosopher, William Godwin. Mary Godwin is his daughter."