by The Bargain
So now, as she sat here trying to piece together the incidents that had led to this unhappy state of affairs and make some sense out of them, she also awaited the arrival of Megan. She'd sent word to her friend that she would be happy to see her sometime after the dinner hour, although Ashleigh had taken her meal in her chamber, on a tray, and then had only picked at the food, pushing it about her plate as she'd mulled everything over in her mind.
As if her thoughts of the tall redhead had summoned her, at that moment there came a soft tapping at the door, followed by an Irish brogue saying, "Ashleigh, are ye there?"
"Yes, Megan, please come in."
The door opened and her friend entered, a gentle, questioning smile on her face. She moved quickly toward the chair from which Ashleigh rose, and bent to give her a fierce hug.
"Ah, macushla, it breaks me heart t' see ye lookin' so sad! There, there, it cannot be as bad as ye think... ye'll see! We'll see a way yet t' make lemonade out o' the lemon we've been handed!"
At the sounds of her friend's words and the feel of her comforting arms about her, Ashleigh at last gave way to the tears that had hovered all day. Suddenly, great wrenching sobs began to shake her small frame, ushering in a torrent that seemed as if it would never cease.
And all the while Megan held her, letting her cry out her heartbreak, her doubts, her confusion. Megan had a long acquaintance with those things; she'd been there before... many times.
After some time the weeping ceased, dwindling down to small, hiccoughing sobs that finally ebbed as well, fading into a long, shuddering sigh. Here Ashleigh raised her swollen, tear-streaked face to her friend, saying, "Oh, Megan, help me, please. What am I to do? How am I going to make it through all of this?"
Megan gently smoothed back from her forehead some of the strands of hair that had fallen over her face and gave Ashleigh a small, promising smile. "Ye'll make it, just as ye've managed t' make it through the last dozen years or so, darlin' girl—by the pluck o' yer heart and the grit o' that fine spirit ye were born with. Ye'll see." Suddenly Megan's eyes narrowed and grew hard as the emeralds they favored. "There be some in this house that think His Grace has found himself saddled with a guttersnipe fer a duchess. But ye, me lass, are about t' prove them wrong. Unless I miss me guess, they're shortly t' discover His Grace has found himself a queen!"
"You're... resigned to this match for me, then, Megan?" Ashleigh kept her eyes raised to her friend's face as she allowed her to lead her toward the bed.
Megan sighed as she turned down the coverlet and began to help Ashleigh undress. "'Tis what yer brother wishes fer ye, darlin', and I'm after thinkin' 'tis not the time t' be doubtin' him. Ye've been without family fer so long, 'twould be a mistake, I fear, t' be disregardin' the blessed miracle that brought the protection and guidance o' one back into yer life." She removed the gown she'd finished unbuttoning and turned toward the chest of drawers where Ashleigh's nightclothes were kept. "I'm thinkin' 'tis time t' turn yer cares over t' someone who has yer own best welfare at heart.
"Lean on yer brother, Ashleigh," she said as she returned with a delicate pink-and-white dimity night rail. "He's lived far more than either o' us, and t' me way o' thinkin', the man knows what he's about. Ye could do far worse than heedin' Patrick St. Clare!"
A small smile found its way to Ashleigh's lips as she viewed Megan's face in the growing darkness. "You're... impressed with my brother, aren't you, Megan?" she queried.
An unusual glimmer of emerald light danced in Megan's eyes before the tall woman hurriedly turned and began making an extraordinary fuss over tidying up the clothes Ashleigh had discarded. "Well-l-l," she said at last, after a too-long silence, "he is a fine, upstandin' figure o' the best his sex has t' offer, and he certainly handled that rogue, Ravensford, in short order, and he obviously loves ye more than his own life and limb... aye, I find all that impressive...."
Ashleigh eyed her carefully for a moment. She had the feeling Megan was not dealing directly with her question, but as the redhead had suddenly turned away to adjust the wick of a nearby lamp and avoided her gaze, she shrugged and decided to let the matter drop.
Yawning as she stepped up to the high tester bed and slipped between its silken sheets, Ashleigh forced herself to ask the question that had been nagging all day; the rest could wait until tomorrow. "Megan, does anyone know... That is, what— what has—has Brett been saying or—or doing through all this?"
Megan gave her a long, thoughtful look. "He's not been up here t' see ye, has he? Or made any attempts t' talk with ye?" A solemn shake of the head.
Megan sighed, then reached to place her hand over Ashleigh's, which were folded over her chest atop the coverlet in a posture that was curiously childlike... and forlorn. "Ye must know that the two o' them had fierce words over the matter last night. Oh, 'twasn't about the business o' how His Grace came t' do ye wrong. Ye must have guessed Patrick had already heard about that—minus yer identity, until he put two and two t'gither there in the drawin' room.... No, it had more t' do with Patrick tryin' t' fathom the nature o' His Grace's attitude toward the incident and toward ye, or, more particularly, toward women in his life.
"Ah, Ashleigh, I fear the man's all twisted apart inside when it comes t' females! I suspected somethin' o' the like before, but..." Sadly, Megan shook her head. "It has somethin' t' do with the way he was raised by that grandfather o' his, the old duke... and with betrayals and losses goin' way back t' his childhood."
Here Ashleigh interrupted with a question that had been plaguing her for some time. "What happened to—to Brett's mother? Did she die a long time ago?"
Megan shook her head. "That's just it—she didn't die. There was some trouble with the Westmonts and she... she left, when His Grace was but a wee lad. I think—"
"She deserted her own child?" Ashleigh sat up, wide-awake now, with a look of horror imprinted on her face.
"I'm not sure. The duke's words seemed t' imply it, but Patrick..." Megan's expression grew speculative, then suddenly, the green eyes met Ashleigh's. "Ashleigh, how much do ye know about the friendship between yer Patrick and the duke? How far back does it go?"
"I—I'm not sure. Since they're about the same age, and my family's home was located not too far from here, I guess I just assumed they knew each other back then, when I was just a baby and too young to be aware of it. I know I never met any Westmonts as a child, but that never puzzled me after coming here to Ravensford Hall as an adult. My father was only a minor nobleman, you see, and the lofty Westmonts—"
"Didn't Patrick talk about it, or about what happened t' him durin'—"
"Oh, wait! I think he did say something... it was when he spoke of his seafaring venture and changing the spelling of our name to the old one... he didn't want any special privilege, just as—as Brett hadn't when they were cabin boys together, years earlier! I'd almost forgotten that because I was so distraught over..." She stopped and made a helpless gesture with her hands.
"Hmm," murmured Megan. "I think perhaps we'd better be havin' a talk with Patrick. The saints only know, we can use all the information we can get t' shed some light on the nature o' that puzzle ye're about t' wed!"
At the mention of the man who was to become her husband, a look of panic flooded Ashleigh's face. "Megan," she whispered, "I know he—he hates this! I saw his face in the library. We all did."
"Hush, darlin'. Don't fash yerself so... and, besides... I'm not so sure.... Oh, I know the man's full o' more than his share o' hatin'—but I doubt that what ye saw in the library had as much t' do with weddin' ye as it had t' do with bein' forced t' somethin' that wasn't his own doin'. He's full o' more than his share o' pride, too, I can tell ye!"
"B-but, Megan, it amounts to the same thing! He resents Patrick for forcing it, and me for—for the part I play in it."
Megan gave her a sly look. "Would ye be wagerin' on the prospect he'd rather have the Lady Elizabeth?"
Ashleigh's thoughts flew back to the day before, to images of
Brett and his fiancée walking together... talking together, and for some strange reason, she felt a lump form in her throat.
Megan saw her look and laughed. "Ye can stop fashin' yerself where her High-and-Mightiness is concerned. Take me word fer it, macushla, he's gladly rid o' her, 'screechin' harpy' that she be!"
They shared a small laugh over this, but soon Ashleigh's face grew somber again. "But Megan, that still doesn't mean he wants marriage to me, any... any more than I do," she finished lamely.
"Aye," said Megan, the word coming out in a sigh as she reached to tuck the coverlet gently about Ashleigh's shoulders. "But the deed's been set in motion, Yer Grace-t'-Be, and that's the fact o' the matter. Now all we can do is work t' find a way t' make it better." She leaned toward the nightstand to extinguish the lamp. "Trust me, darlin'," she whispered as she bent to place a kiss on Ashleigh's brow in the darkness. "I've found a way out o' worse fixes than this before, and I'll find a way t' help us do it again."
With quiet footsteps, Megan left the chamber as Ashleigh's even breathing told her she slept.
Minutes passed, and then, noiselessly, the door to the chamber opened and a tall figure stepped into the darkness. Without a sound, Brett walked toward the bed until he stood beside it and gazed down at the shadowy form of its sleeping occupant.
He wasn't entirely sure why he'd chosen to come here at this time, when he was sure she was asleep. He only knew that, ever since early this morning, when he'd ridden purposefully away from the Hall with the idea of separating himself from the sources of his anger, he'd been hard put to keep thoughts of her at bay. Even when he'd thrown himself into the work of the estate, ceaselessly pushing himself for hours, to attend to things that, under more ordinary circumstances, would have taken him days to accomplish, he'd been unable to dismiss her from his mind.
But the anger had won in the end, refusing to yield even when, after only a light supper of bread and cheese, he'd closed himself in his chamber and attempted to blot it out with a bottle of brandy, ruthlessly downed. Well, the brandy had almost accomplished what the hours of work had not... almost. He was no longer furious with Patrick, of that he was sure. Indeed, he'd come to view the actions of his friend with a rational eye, seeing them as nothing untoward—nothing, in fact, too different from the way he would have reacted, had their positions been reversed. Patrick's motivations had sprung from a sense of upholding his family's honor; Brett could readily relate to that.
And even his fury with that hysterical bitch, Elizabeth, had been reduced once again to the level of disdainful contempt with which he'd always regarded her. He'd even had a moment of faintly amused pity for Elizabeth, thinking that now she'd be forced to market her coldly chaste body in exchange for a title beneath that of duchess. There just weren't that many eligible dukes around!
But where Ashleigh Sinclair was concerned... or was it now St. Clare? The corners of his mouth twisted into a smile of grim self-deprecation as he thought upon the ironic little quirk of fate that had caused him to separate the two spellings of his friend's surname in his mind, or, rather, the two pronunciations! What dullness of wit had it been that had led him to think of Patrick only in the Americanized version of his name? He, who'd been surviving by his wits for years when it came to making a success of his work for the crown! Surely if he'd been on his toes, when he'd heard the chit's name was Sinclair and, already having an awareness of Patrick's search for his sister, he'd have given pause....
Brett's smile grew even grimmer as he stopped himself— suddenly bitterly aware he was wasting productive energy with such self-flagellation. It was keeping him from focusing on the real source of his concern: the young woman lying in the bed before him and the state of confusion she brought to his mind.
Why was he still so angry with her? And why were his angry images of Ashleigh equally riddled with relentless memories of the night he'd taken her body, of overwhelming longings to taste that sweet flesh again? Even now, as he stood here above her in the darkness, it was all he could do not to slip in beside her and take her into his arms, to make delicious, prolonged and passionate love to her until she yielded to him, erasing the irrational anger from his mind.
A rational, practical part of him told him it might be guilt that played the demon, but he was not convinced. If guilt were the culprit, why then should he not welcome the chance to make amends, assuaging it by "making an honest woman out of her"? After all, she was far sweeter by nature, and therefore infinitely preferable, to Elizabeth. Since he must eventually wed anyway, why not this beautiful baronet's daughter who pleased his flesh as well? Marrying her would serve several purposes at once, even mending and solidifying his friendship with Patrick, one of the few men he respected and admired. What, then, was his problem?
Suddenly his gaze shifted to the window, which, as it was a warm night, had been left open and the drapes undrawn to encourage the breeze that was gently wafting through. At that moment the moon, which was nearly full, appeared from behind a high, passing cloud, throwing a shaft of silvery light across the coverlet and onto Ashleigh's still face.
God, she's lovely! thought Brett as he watched the moonlight wash those delicately shaped features, imparting them with an ethereal glow that made them seem as if they were not of this world. Slowly, he let his eyes follow the fragile contours... the slightly flaring brows, the sooty fringe of midnight lashes, the small, straight nose and finely drawn mouth, its ripe lips barely parted in slumber. His glance sought the dark mass of her hair, separating it from the inky shadows on her pillow, tracing the richness of its luxuriant silk as the moonlight caught the shine of a curling lock here and there. It was a silent poem to all that was beautiful in the human form—lovely not only for the physical perfection residing there, but from something far more ephemeral.
Here was beauty from an inner light—the loveliness of child-just-become-woman, of the spring of life in its freshness and goodness and, yes, innocence, in the best sense of the term. Here was a female who, even in her waking hours lost none of the qualities he viewed now. Here was no trick of features temporarily released in slumber, only to revert to the artful poses of the real world when she awakened, as he'd had occasion to witness countless times in the women he'd bedded. Ashleigh Sinclair was totally different from all the other women he'd known, and it was this, he realized at last, that troubled him.
When would it begin? When would the cankerous poison that he knew to be a portion of her sex begin to insinuate itself, as it surely must, destroying all he saw here, changing it before his very eyes as he lived with her day by day? The very notion sent a sharp twist of pain to his center, causing him to turn his head and look away.
Oh damn! At this very moment she could be visited with dreams that turned her guileless thoughts to ones of bitterness and revenge for what was being forced upon her. He'd seen her face when her brother broke the news. The only thing that matched it was his memory of her reaction that night at Hampton House when she'd learned he'd come for her. But then, at least, he'd been able to view her with some detachment. Such was not the case now.
Now he must shortly bind himself to this enchanting creature he'd just begun to come to know and proceed to watch helplessly as she slowly turned evil.... From deep within the recesses of memory Brett felt the ghost of an old pain: it had happened before, and it would happen again. Oh, Christ! It did not bear thinking on!
With a convulsive swallowing of the bitter bile that rose in his throat, Brett shut his eyes for a moment in a vain attempt to blot out the pain, then whirled and stumbled blindly from the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A fortnight later Ashleigh stood in the mauve-and-cream-decorated bedchamber upstairs in the dowager's cottage near the lake and looked about her with a sigh. In a few more hours it would be done; she would be wed to Brett Westmont, ninth duke of Ravensford, and spend her wedding night here. Yet, why did it all seem unreal to her? Why did it feel as if it were someone else standing here in an exquisite cream
silk gown lavished with old lace, waiting to become a duchess?
Once again, her eyes traversed the expanse of the chamber that had been hurriedly refurbished for this occasion. A wry smile broke out as Ashleigh considered the way this had come about. She had seen almost nothing of Brett since the awkward night of their betrothal, but one morning soon thereafter, he had sent Hettie Busby to her with a note saying it had been a tradition for the Westmont brides to take up residence in the dowager's cottage in the weeks prior to their nuptials; that in earlier times it had often been with a Westmont dowager in residence as well, but as the nearest thing to a dowager Ravensford Hall had was the Lady Margaret, he was sending instead his housekeeper with instructions to take Ashleigh to the cottage with a crew of workmen and others from the Hall to see it was made ready to receive a bride.
That had been more than ten days ago, and in the ensuing time, no amount of industry or expense had been spared in seeing the Tudor-style cottage redecorated. In record time dozens of painters, plasterers, carpenters and footmen had swarmed over the structure's ten rooms—five below, including a kitchen and accommodations for a small staff, and five above: this spacious bedchamber; a sitting room; a dressing room; one maid's room; and a small drawing room that, like the bedchamber, had had a small wooden balcony added during Queen Anne's time, when the dowager had been a former French comtesse who thought the lake too lovely a sight to be viewed only from indoors on a warm evening.
Thoughts of the balconies prompted Ashleigh to wander toward the French doors that had remained closed for most of the day, owing to a soft rainfall that had been with them since last night. But now she saw a shaft of sunlight breaking through the receding clouds of an afternoon that was growing brighter, turning the droplets of water that clung to the newly replaced balcony railing and the leaves of a nearby chestnut tree into tiny prisms of light.