Sattler, Veronica

by The Bargain

  With a quick movement, she pulled the doors open and was instantly greeted by a rush of cool, sweet air. It bore all the freshness of an English summer's day washed clean by the kind of soft rains she would always remember as the sweetest part of Kent. Drifting up to her from the lovely flower garden that had not been neglected during the years the cottage remained vacant came the faint but heady scent of damask roses, while her glance met with a riot of color she soon perceived in the more definitive shapes of geraniums, lupines and lamb's ears, and then climbing hydrangeas on a small stone wall near the front gate.

  Her eyes lifted to the near distance where the waters of the lake lay tranquil and smooth. A pair of elegant white swans rounded a small island in the center, then seemed to check themselves, pause and swing back in the direction from which they'd come.

  Then Ashleigh saw what prompted their behavior. Cutting swiftly across the lake from the other side was a small skiff, or rowboat. It bore two people; the one that rowed looked like a liveried footman, judging by the vermilion color of his coat; the other appeared to be a woman, for she wore a bright, flower-bedecked bonnet that seemed to be slightly askew on her head. The boat was moving unusually fast.

  Carefully raising her silk skirts to avoid tripping on them, Ashleigh turned and headed for the door. There was no one else with her at the cottage right now, as Hettie and Megan had gone to tell Patrick she was ready to be escorted to the church in the village—where a special license obtained by Brett, with Patrick's urging, had made it possible for the vicar to marry them in such short order—and, Ashleigh realized, since whoever occupied that rowboat was heading for the cottage, she would have to see what they wanted.

  Moments later she was out the front door and walking toward the gate, just in time to see the skiff touch the shoreline. As the red-coated man jumped out and began to haul it farther onto dry grass, she got a closer view of the bonneted passenger. It was Lady Jane Hastings.

  "Oh, Miss Sinclair, Miss Sinclair!" cried the little rotund figure as the liveried servant helped her from the boat. "I'm ever so glad to have found you still at the cottage!"

  Holding her skirts carefully aside to avoid catching the droplets of rain that still clung to the hollyhocks nearby, Ashleigh released the latch on the gate and passed through, then walked down the cobblestoned path toward her approaching visitor.

  "Why, Lady Jane, what a pleasant surprise! It's nice to see you again," Ashleigh told her with sincerity. She'd become genuinely fond of the little woman during their brief encounter the day of the party. It came from nothing she could put her finger on, but there was something about her that invited instant sympathy and kindness. All the more reason, Ashleigh thought with a brief inner grimace as she extended her hand in welcome, to deplore the insensitive behavior of Margaret Westmont toward this sweet little woman that day.

  "Oh, Miss Sinclair, I hope you'll forgive this intrusion, on this, of all days," said Lady Jane as she panted from the exertion of having climbed out of the skiff and then fairly run up the path. "It—it was my only chance to come away, you see." She glanced briefly over her shoulder to scan the lake, then back at Ashleigh. "They'd be terribly upset with me if they knew. That's why I had to wait this late, until Blye here came off duty to do the rowing. Blye and I go back a long way, don't we, Blye?"

  The old man's crumpled lips rounded into a yellow-toothed smile. "Yes, m'lady."

  "Well, Lady Jane," said Ashleigh, "won't you come inside? My brother is coming with the carriage soon to take me to the village, but perhaps I can fix a quick cup of tea before—"

  "Oh, dear me, no," smiled Lady Jane, "and, please, do call me Jane. It's all I'm accustomed to. But, no, my dear. It's awfully kind of you to invite me, but I wouldn't dream of it. I only came to—to wish you well—on your wedding day, you see... and to—" She turned again to the patiently waiting Blye. "Blye, dear, I've forgotten them in the boat. Would you be so kind...?"

  "Of course, m'lady." With a polite nod, the old retainer turned and headed for the skiff.

  Jane returned her attention to Ashleigh. "My, my, how lovely you look, all dressed up in your bridal finery...." Suddenly a faraway look crept into the old woman's eyes. "I was a bride once, too... a very... beautiful bride, or so they said. Everyone came... it was all so lovely, with the church all decked in roses and the children's choir singing...."

  All at once Jane's eyes went from misty to dark. "I was a mother once, too," she said, but her voice was so low, Ashleigh had to bend to catch the words. "But it all turned wrong... all wrong... and empty... yes, an empty cradle.... But they filled it up again soon enough, oh yes they did. Made me a mother, double, they did! But—" she raised forlorn eyes to Ashleigh "—but I wasn't really a mother. I tried to tell them, but they wouldn't listen! Can you understand? She forbade them to listen!"

  Ashleigh grew uncomfortable, not so much from the strangely disjointed words Jane Hastings uttered, although in themselves they were perplexing enough, but from the chill, hollow sound of her voice as she spoke—not to mention the look of anguish that shone from her hazel eyes.

  "Jane," she said softly, "perhaps you've overtaxed yourself coming across the lake. If you like, we can sit—"

  "Oh, here they are, fresh as when I picked them!" interrupted Jane as she whirled to meet Blye. "Thank you, Blye." Turning back to Ashleigh, she handed her a bouquet of gorgeous tea roses. "For you on your wedding day, my dear. I grew them myself, in my own garden, and while I may not be allowed to see you at the church, I do hope you'll let them take my good wishes with you when you go." The gentle smile that accompanied this was filled with warmth, bearing not a hint of the dark looks that had haunted her eyes a moment before.

  "Ohh," said Ashleigh, smiling and pulling the bouquet toward her to inhale its scent. "How beautiful!" She breathed in the soft, heady fragrance, then looked at Jane with a smile. "Jane Hastings," she said with a small tremor, "you've just given me the loveliest wedding gift a bride could wish for. Thank you. Thank you so much."

  "Not at all, my dear. I knew you would love them, and so I determined that you should have them, didn't I, Blye? Well, we must be off, now. So sorry to run, but they'll be missing me before long if I don't." She turned and placed her hand on Blye's proffered arm, then paused a moment and turned back to Ashleigh. "Be happy, my dear. I wish it for you with all my heart. There are too many about who wish you ill, and—" she glanced at the bouquet "—well, my tea roses have always been lucky flowers, and I dearly hope they'll bring you luck, too."

  She turned toward the lake again, but as the two started back down the path, Ashleigh cried out, "Wait! Please, I'll only be a moment!" and then darted toward the cottage.

  A few moments later Ashleigh had what she wanted. Taken from the tiny springhouse behind the kitchen, it was a small bottle of fresh cream. She handed it to Jane.

  The old woman's eyes grew wide, then bore the shimmer of instant tears. With a quick movement, she reached out and gave Ashleigh a hug about the shoulders. "How very kind you are, my dear. I shall never forget this. God keep you!" Then she turned, took Blye's arm, and walked to the skiff.

  Ashleigh watched them row out until they disappeared into the mist that was forming on the far side of the lake. She was still standing on the path holding the bouquet of tea roses and pondering the significance of some of the things she'd heard Jane Hastings say when the sounds of an approaching carriage drew her attention.

  "There you are, sweetheart!" Patrick called out over the barking of a joyful Finn who bounded down the drive ahead of the brougham.

  Laughingly ordering the wolfhound to "stay" before he could cover her gown with mud from his huge paws, Ashleigh patted his head and then turned her attention toward the carriage. There, being helped out by the liveried driver, she suddenly beheld the most striking couple she'd ever seen.

  Patrick had followed Megan down from the brougham and the two of them stood together facing her. Tall and majestic, each of them wore attire befitting a guest
at a duke's wedding. Patrick, in his black coat over a white satin waistcoat embroidered with gold thread, and black pantaloons with black and gold tasseled Hessians, was the image of the perfect Corinthian in heroic proportions; Megan, wearing a simply cut, yet utterly elegant, pale misty violet voile gown with a deep violet silk pelisse over it, played the perfect female counterpart to his masculine grandeur. With her glorious hair bound up with violet and gold bands into a high version of a Grecian coiffure, she appeared nearly as tall as he, and as they stood there, side by side, Ashleigh had to fight the notion that they had somehow always been together, having been wrought together to form a pair from the outset.

  "Well, you two," she finally managed to say as they began to walk toward her, "Don't you look grand!"

  "Not half so grand as the colleen we're lookin' at now," smiled Megan as she came to Ashleigh with an embrace. "Faith, but she's grown lovelier since I left t' fetch ye, Patrick."

  "Indeed, a beauty," murmured Patrick with a soft, tender look at his sister. "How are you, little one?"

  "Well enough, I suppose," Ashleigh told him honestly. She and Patrick had spent many hours together, daily, since the morning of their initial talk, and she knew he entertained no illusions regarding her feelings toward this marriage. He knew she was reconciled to it as a means of honoring his wishes—for she loved him to distraction and told him so, often—but where her groom was concerned, her attitude was more one of resignation than reconciliation.

  "But still not all that excited about becoming a duchess, I see," Patrick was saying.

  "Oh, Patrick, surely you know me well enough by now, despite our years of separation! I really—"

  "Cannot place all that much value on the importance of a title. Yes, yes, I know," said Patrick with a smile. "You know, Ashleigh, with sentiments like yours, you really ought to try living in America. You'd feel right at home there."

  "And 'tis not surprisin' that that poet, Shelley, had sent an invitation t' Ashleigh t' visit him in London," Megan added. "Apparently he and his lady friend found her ideas t' their likin', too."

  Patrick raised an eyebrow at his sister. "So now you're taking up with radicals, are you?" There was a teasing light in his blue eyes.

  "Mr. Shelley and Miss Wollstonecraft? Why, I hardly spoke with them!" Ashleigh protested.

  Patrick broke into easy laughter as he led her toward the brougham. "Bristles easily, doesn't she, Megan?"

  Megan was also laughing. "Well now, Patrick, d' ye suppose 'tis against the rules fer a duchess t' bristle? Why, I'd have thought they were twice entitled t' do so!" She winked at Ashleigh. "All that upper crust makin' them so stiff in their skirts, ye know!"

  "All right, all right, you two!" said Ashleigh, joining in their laughter. She recognized what they were doing, falling into this easy banter and cajolery. They were trying to ease her apprehension in the face of what was about to take place in the church, trying to lighten her mood as the time for the wedding drew near, and she loved them for it; therefore, she was determined not to let them down by showing just how fearful she actually did feel inside and readily matched them in their lighthearted tone. "Just remember, after today when you're out with me in public, I expect to be 'Your Graced' to the utmost."

  "Oh, aye!" giggled Megan as they reached the carriage and she withdrew a cloth-of-gold, floor-length cape to place over Ashleigh's shoulders. "We'll 'Yer Grace' ye t' death, won't we, Patrick?"

  "Of course," nodded her brother in mock solemnity as he and the driver helped them into the vehicle, "and bow low before her so much, she'll soon forget what our faces look like and begin to recognize us by the tops of our heads."

  "Well, just see that you don't forget it!" said Ashleigh with all the imperiousness she could muster, even as the corners of her mouth twitched with humor.

  The brougham's door shut, muffling the sounds of mingled laughter from its passengers, the driver took his seat at the reins, and, with a bark from Finn—unaccompanied, for a change, by Lady Dimples, for Hettie Busby, much to Patrick's relief, had heartily insisted Finn's porcine companion be left behind on so momentous an occasion—the carriage departed for the village.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Despite all the banter about the pomp and ceremony that would come with being wed to a duke, the wedding was a simple one. Among other things, the Westmonts were in mourning, and while a small, quiet wedding during this period might have raised some of the staunchest eyebrows, a grander affair, to the ton, would have been considered beyond the pale. Therefore, when the brougham arrived at the small, early Norman church in the village, it was met there by only three people: the vicar, his wife and the groom.

  Brett awaited them outside, beside a shiny black phaeton he'd driven himself. He looked, to Ashleigh, as handsome as he ever had, clad in black coat and breeches that contrasted with the snowy-white stock that he wore against his tanned, masculine face and a white waistcoat decorated with gold thread; like Patrick, he'd forgone the formality of silk hose and dress pumps, for the mud left behind by the recent rain rendered such footwear impractical, but instead of Hessians, he sported high black riding boots polished to a mirror shine.

  Yet there was something beyond simple attire and good looks that struck the bride as she looked at the man she was about to marry. As he stood there with his booted feet planted well apart, his arms folded across his broad chest, she had the sense that something very male and primitive rested beneath that civilized facade. Raw, barely leashed power emanated from his every pore, giving her the feeling she was looking at something dangerous and invincible, and suddenly Ashleigh was afraid.

  She was a fool to think Patrick hadn't underestimated the lengths to which he could push Brett Westmont, a double fool to think she had only to acquiesce and all might somehow be well, as Megan had implied. One look at those hard turquoise eyes, the angular planes of his face formed by those cheekbones, that implacable slash that was now his mouth, made her throat suddenly run dry, her chest go tight with fear. What was she doing here? How had she forgotten the dark, brooding side of this man who was still a stranger to her, and beyond that, an enigma? And what's more, now that she did remember, how was she going to escape?

  But, even as she thought of it, the avenues of escape quickly closed to Ashleigh. She felt herself being handed down from the carriage, saw Mr. Smythe, the vicar, come forward to greet her tiny party, felt her feet moving inexorably closer to the man who gave her a last, unfathomable look before nodding to her, and following the vicar and Mrs. Smythe into the church.

  As she walked with leaden feet toward the simple altar, she thought she heard Megan whisper a phrase of encouragement, but couldn't be sure. She felt the strength of Patrick's arm under her hand and clung to it as a solitary rock in a sinking world. Finally she heard only the centuries-old words being read from the Book of Common Prayer: "Dearly beloved..."

  As the vicar intoned the words originally penned by Sir Thomas Cranmer, Brett gazed straight ahead at the altar, but in his mind's eye he saw Ashleigh. He wondered if she would ever look more beautiful... or more frightened. He'd watched her alight from the carriage with far more than the casual interest he'd schooled his features to display. That first glimpse had been enough to take his breath away as she seemed to float down to the ground, a vision in creamy ivory and rich gold, her black hair contrasting vividly with the light, translucent loveliness of her skin, softened only by the hint of a blush that spread across her cheeks as she paused to raise those huge blue eyes to him.

  But then he'd seen her grow suddenly pale, her eyes become even larger in her face as her gaze fused for an instant with his. A moment later he witnessed a blank look replace the one of panic he knew he had not imagined in those eyes. It was then he realized how frightened she was, and he felt a moment's urge to rush forward and fold her into his arms, to murmur words of comfort and reassurance in those delicate, shell-like ears and to tell her she needn't be afraid.

  But the moment had passed, and now
he concentrated on not allowing it to repeat itself. That way lurked weakness, and where weakness resided, disaster followed. Besides, she had, rationally speaking, nothing to fear from him. Apart from the appalling circumstances of their first meeting, hadn't he treated her with utmost courtesy and respect? Hadn't he gone out of his way to be kind to her, bending over backward to see she was cared for, even going so far as to swear off intimate contact with her person? And this had by no means been easy, for the bald truth was, he wanted her... Oh, yes, he wanted her....

  And tonight he would at last again be able to have her. In that instant Brett glanced down at Ashleigh. As he heard her repeat the words "...for better for worse, for richer for poorer..." he suddenly wondered if he'd hit upon what had her quaking with fear. Was she frightened of the marriage bed? Mentally, Brett ticked off the events of their disastrous first encounter. God knew, he hadn't been gentle with her. Yes, that was quite likely the problem, then.

  Suddenly Brett smiled inwardly to himself. This was a problem he could deal with! If he had prowess in any arena, it was in pleasing a woman in bed—if he chose to do so. All he need do, then, was to make sure he satisfied her tonight. Once she'd learned the pleasures that awaited her between his sheets, she'd come to lose her fears; then he could get his heir from her and all would be well. It was what marriage was all about, wasn't it?

  With these last thoughts in mind, Brett allowed himself a small, victorious smile as he joined Ashleigh in kneeling to receive the vicar's blessing.

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