St. Leger 1: The Bride Finder

by Susan Carroll

  "I'm sorry' she said. "I did not mean to stare. It was rude."

  Roman leaned closer, lowering his voice to an intimate timbre. "Not at all. It is a most agreeable thing for a man to find himself the object of interest to such a beautiful pair of green eyes. Are they more the shade of emerald or jade, would you say?"

  "I—I don't know," Madeline stammered, uncomfortably aware that Anatole's fierce eyes were trained in her direction.

  She had never been adept at receiving such flattery or engaging in light flirtation. Her sister Louisa would have known how to handle a man like Roman, laughing, fluttering her lashes, making the most of any opportunity to drive her young husband wild with jealousy.

  Madeline recoiled at the notion of even attempting such a dangerous game with Anatole. There could be no jealousy where there was no love. Whatever hostility existed between Anatole and his cousin sprang from some ancient grudge, another part of his past that she was not to be permitted to know.

  "Your eyes are more like emeralds, I think," Roman persisted, leaning even closer. "The same brilliant fire and luster—"

  "Indeed, sir, they are neither emerald nor jade. They are just plain green."

  Roman's brows arched in surprise. "Do my compliments offend you, cousin?"

  "No, I would simply prefer it if you spoke to me like an honest, sensible man."

  Madeline winced. She'd been too blunt as always. Roman's eyes narrowed.

  But the wintery expression passed, and he laughed, murmuring, "Ah. The lady is as wise as she is beautiful."

  He settled back in his chair, much to Madeline's relief. Appearing to have accepted her rebuff with good humor, he obliged her by changing the subject. Roman could be an engaging companion when he chose, speaking to her of London, the theater, and a dozen other mutual interests.

  But as the second course was served, it seemed more prudent to direct her attention to Roman's friend, Yves. The Frenchman was all but forgotten by the rest of the party. Mr. Fitzleger, who might have been kind to him, was seated at the far end of the table, next to Anatole. And the rest of the St. Legers talked amongst themselves, excluding Rochencoeur.

  The Frenchman appeared to be the sort of dandy that Madeline would have avoided herself, and had often done so in London drawing rooms. But she felt an unexpected sympathy for the man.

  Perhaps because the two of them were both outsiders here amongst this overpowering St. Leger clan. It was almost cruel the way Roman had thrust his friend into this awkward situation, bringing him to a supper where he had not been invited or wanted. Roman should have known that Rochencoeur was exactly the kind of man that would most incite the contempt of his forthright relatives. The nervous Frenchman seemed to shrink back in his seat as though determined to draw as little attention to himself as possible.

  Yves did not give the appearance of any great intelligence, his pale-colored eyes empty, as devoid of animation as a china doll. Yet Roman did not seem to be the sort who would suffer a fool gladly as his companion. It puzzled Madeline greatly how the two men could ever have become friends.

  She curbed her curiosity while she made certain the Frenchman's wineglass and plate were kept refilled. It amused her to note that Anatole's prediction regarding Yves's eating habits were wide of the mark.

  Most of the St. Legers had lusty appetites, but Madeline would have wagered that Monsieur Rochencoeur could have eaten any of them under the table, even the burly Hadrian.

  She watched in amazement as the Frenchman worked his way through several helpings of the wine-roasted gammon, pigeon pie, and green peas. But he had the most exquisite table manners she had ever seen in any man, his hands even more slender and graceful than her own.

  As Rochencoeur paused for a swallow of wine, she ventured, "So you are an architect, monsieur?"

  "Not precisement, Madame,” Yves said with a modest smile. "I have merely the passing interest in the building of fine houses."

  "You have come a long way for a passing interest," Madeline exclaimed. "You must be a great friend of Roman's to travel so far to offer him your aid."

  Rochencoeur's gaze flickered uncertainly to where Roman had fallen into conversation with Zane St. Leger. "Ah, oui, but in truth, I came to England more in the service of a lady."

  "Your wife, sir?"

  "Non. Alas, my wife is gone these many years. I spoke of my noble patroness, Madame la Comtesse Sobrennie."

  Madeline knew she was betraying an impertinent curiosity, but Yves had her intrigued. She had to wait patiently while he sampled the blancmange and the curry of rabbit, but the man was not loath to talk about his noble patroness.

  "It is most difficult for a younger son to find his fortune, especially a man of my meager talents. Madame la Comtesse has been so kind, so generous. She has helped me to make my way in society. She has even undertaken the education of my only son Raphael."

  Yves put down his fork long enough to display the miniature attached to his watch fob, a portrait of a chubby-faced lad with cherubic curls and steady blue eyes.

  "What a handsome little boy," Madeline said.

  "Oui." A spark of pride momentarily lit Yves's expressionless eyes. "He has only the eight years but already promises to be the grand gentleman all due to la comtesse. Such a gracious lady. So clever, so charming, so… so belle!'

  Madeline nodded and smiled at the Frenchman's enthusiasm for the countess. But she steered him back to the subject of far greater interest.

  "It is fortunate your service to the countess allows you the time to help Roman with… what was the name of his estate?"

  "Le Pays Perdue."

  "Lost Land. Surely a rather bleak name for a gentleman's property?"

  "It is a bleak place, madame. Lost and forgotten, a noble house reduced to ashes. But that will all change when—"

  "I fear you are boring my fair cousin, Yves." Roman leaned across the table, cutting in suddenly with an unpleasant smile. "You are a good fellow, but you do have this unfortunate tendency to go prosing on about my affairs."

  Madeline's eyes widened at such blatant rudeness. She glanced anxiously to see how Yves took it, but if the Frenchman resented Roman's insult, he gave no sign of it, other than an almost imperceptible tightening of his fingers about his wineglass.

  Lowering his eyes back to his plate, he said quietly, "I was not prosing, monsieur. Madame St. Leger merely expressed a curiosity the most natural about your new estate, and I was attempting to answer her."

  "If my cousin is so curious about the place, she must ride over and see it for herself. You are fond of riding, are you not, my dear Madeline?" Roman purred.

  It was Madeline's turn to be discomfited. Her nervousness around horses had always been a sensitive point, even more so since her marriage to Anatole.

  Only a few days ago her husband had insisted upon taking her on a tour of his stables, displaying his hunters with a fierce pride. She'd been far too intimidated by such massive beasts to even stroke their glossy manes. Anatole had finally sent her back to the house, and Madeline had gone with a heavy heart, knowing she'd disappointed him greatly.

  But of course it was impossible that Roman could know any of this.

  She forced herself to answer his question as lightly as she could. "Alas, no, sir, I fear I am not that good of a rider."

  Unfortunately her remark carried to the opposite end of the table, drawing the attention of the rest of the men.

  "Nonsense, my dear," Paxton St. Leger said with a genial smile. "All St. Leger women are bred to the saddle."

  "One would certainly suppose that Anatole's bride would be," Roman added.

  "Well, she is not," Anatole said. "And there's an end of the matter."

  "Likely that is because of the great strapping brute you force her to ride. A lady requires a more civilized mount."

  There was an unfortunate quality to Roman's voice whenever he spoke to Anatole that made everything he said sound fraught with some meaning that escaped Madeline. She watched in d
ismay as her husband's eyes darkened to an ominous hue.

  Young Caleb intervened, leaning forward in his chair to say earnestly to Madeline. "You don't need to be afraid of Anatole's horses, cousin. They are fine fellows. I am sure if I talked to them, I could persuade one of them to carry you gently."

  "You talk to horses, monsieur?" Yves asked with a chuckle.

  "Aye, sir." The boy leveled the Frenchman a glance of lofty scorn. "It is my own special gift. The same as my cousin Anatole can—" Caleb clapped a hand to his mouth, looking horrified, as though he'd been about to blurt out something he shouldn't.

  "The same as Anatole can what?" Roman prodded softly.

  Caleb cast a glance at Anatole, appearing fearful of incurring his displeasure. And her husband was looking mighty displeased, but more with Roman.

  "I—I—" Caleb said.” I only meant that I can communicate with horses the same as Anatole is—is good at riding them."

  That was not at all what the boy had first meant to say, Madeline was sure of it. Much to her disappointment, Caleb went back to gnawing on a partridge wing, clearly determined not to speak another word.

  She had hoped this evening, through Anatole's family, she might learn more about the man she had married. But the St. Legers appeared to be as guarded when mentioning Anatole as were his servants or any of the villagers she had chanced to meet.

  It was as though a spell had been cast over Castle Leger, a spell of silence. The only one who seemed unaffected by it was Roman St. Leger. Toying with his wineglass, he returned to the distressing subject of horses as smoothly as though he'd never been interrupted.

  "Perhaps I shall send Madeline something from my own stables. I have a gentle mare that would be perfect for her."

  "No!" Anatole snapped before Madeline could reply.

  "You may consider it a belated wedding present—"

  "I said no!"

  Madeline had no desire for the horse or any other gift from Roman, but she feared the offer could have been refused more graciously.

  Roman's lips thinned. "Perhaps you should let your lady decide for herself."

  "I can see to the mounting of my own wife, thank you," Anatole growled.

  "We assumed you would have already taken care of that, lad," Hadrian said with a wicked twinkle in his brown eyes. It was obvious the captain only sought to break the tension that simmered between Anatole and Roman, but the seaman's ribald comment brought a fiery blush to Madeline's cheeks.

  "Captain St. Leger!" Fitzleger cried.

  Hadrian shot him an unrepentant grin. "Now, Vicar. All newlyweds must put up with a bit of teasing, isn't that right lad?" He gave Anatole's arm a playful jab. "So tell us. Did you break your grandfather's record of making love for three days?"

  Anatole did not reply, his face firing as red as her own, his expression far more strained.

  "Th-three days?" Madeline said, mortified. That certainly answered her question about how often a man could come to his wife's bed. If he had any desire at all to do so. Her heart sank as she realized there was far more wrong with her marriage to Anatole than in her innocence she had ever supposed.

  "Aye," Hadrian chuckled. "You mean you have not yet heard the tale of how my father, Grayson St. Leger, whisked his bride away to the bedchamber directly after the ceremony, and she would scarce allow him out of her arms long enough to eat his breakfast—"

  "Hadrian!" his brother Paxton groaned." 'Tis our mother you are speaking of."

  "And a fine lusty woman she was, too. Nothing to be ashamed of. 'Tis a glorious thing the sort of passion St. Legers inspire in their chosen brides."

  "Aye," Zane said, and he quoted softly," 'Two hearts brought together in a moment, two souls united for an eternity' "

  Paxton relaxed into a reluctant smile, and the rugged faces of all three men were transformed with an unabashed tenderness, their thoughts obviously drifting off to the wives awaiting them at home. But when Madeline's gaze sought Anatole's, he refused to even meet her eyes.

  "But surely," Roman said, "there is no need to be telling Anatole's bride about such grand love and passion. Madeline must have experienced it all for herself, have you not, my dear?"

  Madeline was spared the necessity of a reply by Anatole slamming his fist down on the table hard enough to make the silver plate jump.

  "My bride's experiences are none of your blasted concern. Now, talk of something else, damn it!"

  He cast a savage glower around the table that momentarily reduced everyone to silence. Madeline looked distressed by his flare of anger, but it was the last thing he needed, Anatole thought, for any of his lusty St. Leger relatives to guess that far from three days worth of loving, Anatole had only bedded his wife the once—and that with no great success. His pride would never recover.

  Mercifully they all returned to their dinners, even Marius appearing unaware. Only Roman continued to regard Anatole with his insolent eyes and damnable smile.

  Anatole clenched his teeth, fighting to keep himself under control. He'd vowed he would not allow Roman to push him into losing his temper tonight. But it was proving difficult, Roman taunting him with that subtle malice only Anatole could see, those double-edged remarks that only he could feel sting.

  Past enmity mingled with the present as he watched Roman coax Madeline out of her embarrassment with that insidious charm of his. Anatole gripped the edge of the solid oak table so hard, it amazed him the wood did not splinter.

  It had been a mistake allowing Roman across his threshold, as he'd known it would be, even without the man's silken barbs. Anatole had no social graces to compete with his cousin or the likes of that French dandy.

  The pair of them now had Madeline engrossed in talk of some blasted poet Anatole had never heard of, making him disgustingly jealous of every word, every smile his bride bestowed upon Roman and that damned Frenchman. The discussion brought an animated sparkle to her fine green eyes that Anatole reflected bitterly he had never been able to put there.

  But then, he had no conversation besides his horses, his hunting, or the farming on his estate. A man had little need of more when he took most of his meals in the company of his dogs and footmen. He'd never been ashamed of his ignorance until now.

  That was just one more terrifying thing Madeline was doing to him. She was making him forget how to be alone.

  Thunder rumbled outside, striking closer to the windows, and Anatole stirred in his chair, wishing this supper from hell would come to a swift end. The prospect of such a storm would have sent lesser men scurrying for their horses, but there had never been a St. Leger born troubled by anything so paltry as a lightning bolt, and that infernal Frenchman looked unlikely to rise from the table while there was still a pastry left.

  Anatole stifled a curse when Fitzleger further prolonged the meal by insisting they drink a round of healths to the new bride and groom. But there was no gainsaying the gentle old man's affectionate good wishes.

  Beaming, Fitzleger shoved to his feet and lifted his glass. "To Madeline and Anatole," he said, saluting them each fondly in turn. "Long life and much happiness."

  "Here, here,” Zane St. Leger seconded.

  "To their continued prosperity," Marius added softly.

  "And may they be blessed with many children," the irrepressible Hadrian put in.

  "And bad 'cess to all Mortmains," Caleb sang out the traditional toast of St. Legers for generations.

  Anatole tossed down his wine with impatience, thinking no more of the matter than he ever did. Until he saw Madeline tilt her head in that curious expression he had learned to dread.

  "What's a Mortmain?"

  "A parcel of black-hearted, scurvy bastards," Hadrian said. "Fit to murder all of us St. Legers in our very beds."

  When Madeline's eyes widened in alarm, Anatole directed a repressive scowl at his uncle.

  "The Mortmains were merely another Cornwall family who feuded with ours for generations," he said quickly. "You don't need to worry about them, M
adeline. They are all long dead and gone."

  "But if there are no more Mortmains, why do you still drink toasts to their ill fortune?"

  More to the point, why did Madeline always have to have a logical explanation for everything? Anatole thought in sheer frustration.

  "Well, because—because—"

  "Because it is merely another ridiculous family tradition," Roman cut in, scornfully. "Just like our custom of sending out an old man to select our brides for us."

  Anatole felt Roman's icy contempt saw at the remaining threads of his patience.

  "Have a care, Roman," he said. "I'll tolerate no insult to Mr. Fitzleger beneath my roof."

  "You misunderstand me, cousin. I intend no disrespect to the good vicar."

  "I should hope not," Paxton told him sternly. "You will be needing the Bride Finder's services yourself one day."

  "Oh, I think not. I have made my own arrangements." Roman's eyes flicked from one face to another, flinging out his next words like a man tossing down a gauntlet.

  "Monsieur Rochencoeur is going to act as my marriage broker."

  A stunned silence followed this announcement broken by Paxton's strangled gasp, "What!"

  "Damnation!" Zane exclaimed, a sentiment swiftly echoed by the others.

  Hadrian came half up out of his chair. "First the lad buys Lost Land and now this! He couldn't be more bent on mischief than if he was turning into a damned Mortmain."

  The room dissolved into a cacophony of angry voices, and Anatole cursed Roman himself. He had a grim feeling this was what Roman had intended all along, merely biding his time, waiting to set them all by the ears.

  His cousin lounged in his chair, clearly enjoying the sensation he had caused while Anatole fought to restore order.

  "Quiet!” he thundered.

  Everyone fell silent except for Roman's idiotic friend.

  "It is only the most innocent bit of matchmaking," Yves's hands fluttered as he sought earnestly to explain. "My patroness, la comtesse, you see she is a widow."

  "A very beautiful and rich widow by all reports," Roman murmured.

  "Her own papa was an English milord, and so she has the desire to marry again in the country of her birth. And I thought that if I could bring Roman and la comtesse together, perhaps—"