by The Bargain
Broken from her reverie, Ashleigh flushed at his words.... Oh, no... never... not for a million pennies! she vowed silently. Casting about for a safe response, her eyes fastened on a heavy gold chain he wore about his neck, and, dangling from it, a small, oval, gold locket. The two pieces looked incongruous together, with the chain so obviously a masculine adornment, the locket a small, almost dainty piece beside it, and she realized it was something he'd donned this morning, under his clothes; he hadn't worn it last night.
"I was wondering..." she said, tentatively. "What is this locket and chain you wear about your neck?"
Raising himself up on one elbow, Brett was silent for a moment as he gave her an inscrutable look. At last he heaved a sigh, saying, "I'd forgotten I'd put it back in place." He reached for the chain and slid his fingers along it until he was fingering the locket.
"I've worn this piece for more than a dozen years." Flipping the locket over, he revealed a miniature of a handsome man who looked much like Brett himself, except that his eyes were more blue than turquoise, and his hair was black. "My father, Edward Westmont," he said simply. "And, actually, if you look closely, you'll note that this is really half a locket." He indicated the tiny gold hinge to the left of the miniature. "The missing half, I've never seen."
Ashleigh nodded, but he saw her eyes were curious.
"I came by it in an unusual way," he continued. "One night, not long after I'd returned from a long sea voyage, I made ready to retire in my chamber at the Hall and found the locket lying on my pillow. Of course, I recognized at once whose picture it contained, but I had no idea who'd put it there—or why. I thought of going to my grandfather with it, thinking perhaps, in a sentimental moment, he'd decided to surprise me with it, but when I approached him the next morning, he was in a fine fettle of rage over some parliamentary speech he'd read about in the papers, calling the speaker a driveling sentimentalist. At that instant I decided my grandfather could never have succumbed to an emotion that would lead him to place this locket on my pillow."
Ashleigh nodded. "So you said nothing to him of it."
"Correct," said Brett, "but for some reason I decided to indulge in one little act of sentimentality myself: I bought a chain to hang it about my neck the very next day, and have worn it ever since."
Ashleigh gave him a rueful smile. "Except for last night."
Brett's smile echoed hers. "Except for any night I thought... I might not be alone." He was again silent for a moment, appearing to ponder what he'd said. Then he looked at her with a tender smile. "Ashleigh, I know there have been moments when... when I've not been easy with you, and I would have you understand why this might sometimes be. Take last evening, for example, when I cut you so readily with my damnable bad temper. You'll recall it was after you'd questioned me, rather persistently, I might add—" he gave her a wry smile "—on some things about my past, my... family."
"Brett... I didn't mean to pry."
"No, and I realize that now, Ashleigh. Besides, I don't think it could be called prying for a wife to want to know about such things. And you are my wife now, Ashleigh Westmont, as well as my duchess." He tapped a playful forefinger on her nose. "Therefore," he continued, "I deem you have a right to be privy to certain... information.
"Ashleigh, there are certain things in my past that are not easy for me to dwell upon. Foremost among these is the story of how I came to lose one of my parents at a very tender age...."
He told her then, of the painful and largely mysterious disappearance of his mother when he was but a small boy, of the vagueness of the story he'd been given to explain her disappearance and then of the total removal of evidence of her existence from the Hall, and from his life. He spoke, too, of the unhappiness he'd witnessed in his father during the years that followed, of his father's second marriage and tragic death when he was ten.
Through it all, Ashleigh listened, wide eyes filled with compassion as she imagined what it must have been like to have been that boy, and the pain he must have suffered. At the end she had to swallow past the lump that had formed in her throat with the telling of his story. "Oh, Brett, I had no idea.... Oh, how awful for you!"
Brett's eyes gazed past her, as if he were looking off into the distance, into another time and place. "No, not awful, really... just... instructive."
At her silence, he explained. "It taught me, among other things, to keep silent about what I might be feeling, especially if the feelings involved pain. It's evolved into a lifetime habit, and has stood me in good stead in many of my dealings with men... and women." He reached out to run the front of his crooked forefinger softly along her cheekbone and jaw.
"But with you it must be different. Because you are my wife, because even now you might be carrying our child...." His hand moved to lightly touch her bare, flat belly, then back to cup her cheek. "Be patient with me, Ashleigh. God knows, I'm not a patient man myself, but if you will try to show me some forbearance, I might just be able to... to overcome this ingrained tendency to want to shut you out.... Well, sweet, what do you say?"
Seeing the momentary, naked look of pleading in his eyes, and knowing it to be foreign to his nature, Ashleigh's heart swelled with a surge of joy... and hope. He might not love her... now, but he had taken a very important step to drawing closer to her by sharing with her this intimacy, and she would not abuse his trust.
"Oh, Brett!" she cried, throwing her arms about his neck. "I'm going to try! I'm going to try so very hard!"
Brett let out a gust of shaky laughter. "Well done, Your Grace. Well done, indeed, for that is all I ask."
As he held her in his arms, Brett's turbulent thoughts spun erratically. Perhaps he'd been wrong. Perhaps she would prove to be a woman he could place his faith in. Perhaps....
But deep inside, a skeptical voice warned, Beware. Nothing lasts forever.... Life is, at best, a tenuous gamble... and woman is the ever-changing, wildest card of all....
* * * * *
A short while later, when Ashleigh had just finished her bath and toilette and stood before a large cheval glass wearing a new, sky-blue riding ensemble, she heard the sound of horses on the drive outside.
"That's probably Old Henry with our mounts," called Brett from the top of the stairs where he held a pair of buckets containing her now cool bathwater—to Ashleigh's astonished delight, he'd actually drawn, and heated and carried this bathwater upstairs for her, enough to fill a lovely rose-and-cream enameled hip bath in the dressing room! "Join us down below when you're ready."
A few moments later he met her at the bottom of the stairs. "There's a small problem. It seems Irish Night's thrown a shoe. The farrier's with her now, but it will take another half hour or so until she's ready to ride."
"Oh," said Ashleigh. "Well, then, I can wait here for them to bring her over."
"Would you mind, sweet?" asked Brett as his eyes roamed appreciatively over her slim, fashionably attired figure. Then he reached out impulsively to place a soft kiss at her ear. "You're lovely," he whispered.
Ashleigh felt a thrill ripple the length of her spine, and it took her a moment to respond to his initial comment. "No, of course I wouldn't mind. You'll be riding back now, then?"
"I'm afraid I must," he replied, indicating a folded sheet of paper he held at his side. "I've just been handed a letter from Whitehall. I'm being summoned back to London and I'll need to speak with Higgins about preparing for the trip."
Privately Brett was thinking of something else he must do; it concerned the accident of last night. This morning, while she slept, he'd gone to the balcony and scrutinized the broken railing. Not being a carpenter, he couldn't be sure, but he thought there was something peculiar about the break. Hardly wanting to consider the possibilities, he nevertheless had determined to summon the carpenters who'd worked on the renovations, bringing them out here when Ashleigh had gone. She had endured enough of a shock with the incident, and although she'd recovered remarkably afterward, he had no wish to upset her further today
. He fervently hoped his fears would prove unnecessary; he'd enjoy taking her to London for a few days without such a concern on his mind.
"A bit of official business," he was saying, as he turned to go. "I'll see you back at the Hall for luncheon, and, remember, keep to the flats on that filly. We've not completed her schooling on the jumps yet."
As Ashleigh watched him leave, she wondered about his summons to London. He'd said nothing of her accompanying him. How could he desert a new bride in the face of business? He wouldn't... would he? After all, she was familiar with the London town house, and there were things in the city she could find to do to occupy her time while he was at Whitehall....
Suddenly the warm sunlight streaming through the windows of the vestibule didn't seem so glorious anymore, and Ashleigh found herself biting her lower lip as she heard the sounds of horses leaving the drive.
* * * * *
A short time later, as she sat in a Chippendale wing chair in the sitting room, trying to read a book of poetry she'd discovered, she heard the sound of the downstairs door opening. Thinking it must be one of the stable lads with word that Irish Night was ready—probably a new, untutored one, she guessed, for no properly trained servant would enter without knocking—she wondered as she headed for the stairs why she hadn't heard them approach.
As she reached the top landing, a familiar female voice met her ears.
"Why aren't there any servants about to take my wrap? I— Oh, there you are, Miss Sinclair." Elizabeth Hastings's pronunciation of the name echoed with a sibilant hiss.
Ashleigh bristled as she beheld the lavender-garbed figure advancing up the stairs. "It's Ashleigh Westmont now, Lady Elizabeth." A prick of mischief twitched in the blue eyes. "Or, to put it properly, it's now 'Your Grace.'"
Elizabeth's eyes held no warmth as they fell on the woman she regarded as an opportunistic usurper. "Well, Your Grace," she sneered, "let's see how well you fulfill the obligations of your title. A duchess is a lady, and a lady knows how to invite a guest in." She walked directly past Ashleigh and toward the first door on her right. "Shall we make it the drawing room, Your Grace?"
Wondering whether a duchess had ever thrown a caller out, Ashleigh gritted her teeth and followed her into the drawing room.
Once they were both inside, Elizabeth turned to face her. "I shan't sit down. What I have to say won't take long."
Wondering whether Brett knew Elizabeth was here— whether he'd passed her as he left—Ashleigh questioned, "How did you arrive here? I heard no horses on the drive, but—"
"I rowed myself across the lake," Elizabeth snapped. "I'm actually very good at rowing," she added, "and so is Lady Margaret. She taught me."
"Why have you come here, Elizabeth?"
"Ah, so it's merely 'Elizabeth' now, is it? How the lowly have risen!" She fastened her silver-slitted gaze on Ashleigh's face. "You little usurper!" She paused to glance rapidly about the room, then focused again on Ashleigh. "All this was supposed to have been mine!"
"If you've come here merely to rail at me for—"
"Actually, I have not, though you deserve it, I can assure you. No, my dear little duchess, actually what I've come here for is to do you a service... or perhaps you could consider it a warning."
"Go on," Ashleigh told her. There was a deadly calm in the blue eyes, and had anyone who knew her well seen it, as Patrick had at times in their youth, on those few but memorable occasions when he'd seen his sister truly angry, he would have given pause before going any further.
But Elizabeth Hastings was oblivious to anything about Ashleigh but her immediate purpose, and so she hurriedly continued. "You think you're the cat who's got the cream, don't you? You stand here in all your stolen finery and assume you've arrived at your place in life at last."
"Elizabeth, I don't—"
"Well, let me tell you something, you little guttersnipe! You don't begin to comprehend what it means to be Brett Westmont's wife!
"But that's where I come in, for, believe me, I can tell you!" A slow, ugly smile spread Elizabeth's lips. "How practiced are you, little Ashleigh, at pretending to be blind? For that is what you must do—and often! Every time your randy, philandering husband decides to roam away from your bed!
"Why, I do believe I've shocked you, my dear! What a pity. Didn't you know your new husband enjoys a reputation as one of the greatest rakes in London? Probably in all of England, now I think on it, but—" here she punctuated her speech with a brittle little laugh "—but it's in London, I hear, where he's found most of his mistresses. I mean, really, my dear, did you think that, by wearing his ring, you would see the last of the Pamela Marlowes in his life? Not so, I can assure you. Why, even now, he's likely planning a little side trip into the city to amuse himself. A man with Brett's hot blood doesn't wait very long to afford himself, ah, varied outlets."
Until now, Ashleigh's face had merely displayed angry shock—and doubt—at Elizabeth's words. But her visitor's chance hitting on the one factor related to what had just been on Ashleigh's mind—trips to London without her—had the effect of turning her face deathly pale.
"Ah, I see I've hit a mark!" crowed Elizabeth triumphantly. "Tell me, is our lusty duke already making plans to leave for the city of his amorous pursuits? On the very morn following his wedding night?
"You little fool! You don't know how to begin to deal with his faithlessness, do you? You thought all you need do was turn those big blue kitten's eyes on him and he would remain by your side!
"Well, let me tell you something, you little bitch! I would have known how to deal with it! I would have been able to do what any well-bred wife with a roving husband must! I'd have suffered my wifely duty in his bed often enough to beget the heirs he must have, and then, quite happily, I assure you, become deaf and blind while he satisfied his lust elsewhere.
"That's the only reason he's wed at all, you know. It's the only reason any gentleman of the ton with such appetites marries: to beget his precious heirs!
"So, you see? I've done you a service, after all. Perhaps, now you've learned the truth, you can begin to school yourself to accept it... but I doubt it!" Elizabeth began moving toward the door. Once there, she gave Ashleigh a twisted parting smile. "And if you can't, well, there are ways to extricate yourself. Divorce, among those who can afford it, is not unheard of. And when you do decide to cut him loose, Your Grace, depend upon it, I shall be waiting!"
She left the room, her ugly laughter following her down the hall.
Ashleigh remained where she'd stood through Elizabeth's harangue and thought she was going to be sick. Her throat felt dry and choked, a sickening lump lodged at its base.
Oh, God, what shall I do? she asked herself. It was bad enough to think of enduring the day-to-day as his wife and strive to hide my love for him, knowing he doesn't love me... but to do it in the face of his pursuit of other women? No! Never! I'd die inside... slowly die....
The sickening feeling increased, and she forced herself to walk to the French doors and open them. As fresh air met her lungs, she gazed at the scene of last night's mishap. Dimly she realized that all she had felt during that scare was nothing compared to the anguish and fear she felt now.
Glancing downward, she saw the little bouquet of Lady Jane's tea roses, wilted and fading now, in the morning sunshine. She thought about how she had begun to reach for it before the railing had given away, how this had probably saved her life.
"Lucky flowers," Lady Jane had said....
Stooping to pick them up, Ashleigh felt hot tears choke her throat. Blindly, she clutched the dying flowers to her breast. Lucky! her mind cried out brokenly. Oh, poor roses, your luck may have come to me last night, when you were yet fresh and new... but now... now I think it's as faded as you.
Suddenly Ashleigh straightened, catching herself. What was she allowing to happen here? Since when, through all she had endured in the past, had she ever succumbed to self-pity? Well, she was not going to succumb to it now! She was made of
sterner stuff than that! What was it Megan had said? She'd spoken of grit and pluck, and a fine spirit!
She whirled about and left the balcony, her tears forgotten. Now she knew what she must do. It was just a matter of timing it right.
The sounds of horses on the drive broke her thoughts. Without a moment's hesitation, she dashed for the stairs, eager to enact her plan.
"Ashleigh, are you there?" Patrick's big voice boomed as she came through the front door.
"Patrick! And Megan! Oh, God, it's good to see you!"
Patrick alighted from the stallion he rode and came to help Megan from her mare. Behind them, on a long tether, stood a prancing Irish Night.
The two rushed forward to greet Ashleigh.
"When we heard what kept ye, we decided t' bring ye yer filly ourselves." Megan grinned. "How are ye, darlin'?"
Ashleigh had thought her tears were stoutly behind her a few moments ago, but now, seeing their dear, loving faces, she found she'd been wrong. Suddenly a great, choking sob welled up in her throat and hung on the air.
"Oh, Megan! Patrick!" she cried, and threw herself into their arms.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Brett stood on the balcony beside Tom Blecker, the master carpenter at Ravensford Hall, a man he'd known since he was a boy. He watched as the old man kneeled and peered worriedly at the underside of the piece of broken railing.
"So you think it's been tampered with, Tom?" he asked grimly.
"I don't think, Yer Grace... I know! Pried loose at this joint," he said, pointing to a place on the railing. "'Ere, see fer yerself... 'ere's th' marks wot th' crowbar left... neatly 'idden t' view, unless ye creep way under it, like this."
Brett knelt down beside him and looked, but the act was mostly a courtesy. He knew the old man well, and one thing he'd learned over the years was that, in matters of his trade, Tom's word was unimpeachable.