My Favorite Bride

by Christina Dodd

  Samantha liked to know where she belonged. She liked to know the rules, because she’d discovered the penalty for breaking the rules was humiliation and exile. Now Colonel Gregory was breaking the rules. Except she could scarcely believe a man of such rigid values would break any rules. Perhaps he knew of different rules. Perhaps he was changing the rules. No matter what, she didn’t know if she were on her head or her toes. Glaring at him, she tucked her feet tightly beneath her chair. “It’s a frightening place here, Colonel.”

  “We’ll teach you to love it.” He sounded absolutely confident, a repulsive trait in a man.

  Gesturing toward the peaks, Samantha said, “Everything’s too big. The lakes are blue instead of brown. The air’s so fresh I can’t even see it.”

  “That’s because there’s no coal dust here,” Lady Marchant explained.

  Colonel Gregory allowed his eyes to twinkle at Samantha, and they shared a moment of . . . oh, what to call it? . . . camaraderie, perhaps.

  Then Lady Marchant realized what Samantha had said, and gave an artificial laugh. “Oh. That’s a jest. How funny. Now where do I know you from?” The lady was like a trained dog after a bone, relentless and politely savage.

  “I’ve lived nowhere but in London, which is why this place is dreadfully odd, and I’ve been a governess for the past four years. Perhaps you saw me at one of my posts.” And perhaps you saw me at Newmarket picking pockets, but I’ll not admit to that unless I’m forced.

  Colonel Gregory watched the two of them, listening, weighing their conversation.

  “I do know London very well. You could tell me who employed you and I—” Lady Marchant frowned and shaded her eyes with her hand. “Who’s that young man coming from the stables?”

  Samantha didn’t know, but she already liked him, for he had rescued her.

  A tall, handsome gentleman strode, dressed in a brown wool tailcoat, brown trousers, and a black top hat. As he climbed the stairs onto the veranda, the dimples in his tanned cheeks flashed. He removed his hat, and Samantha saw he sported two black eyes and a swollen nose. In a merry tone, the stranger announced, “William, I have arrived. Let the party begin.”

  Colonel Gregory laughed, rose and shook his hand. “Monroe, we’ve been waiting for you to start the festivities.”

  So Mr. Monroe was a friend of Colonel Gregory’s.

  “Oh,” Lady Marchant said in a bored tone, and she barely glanced at him. “Duncan Monroe. It’s you.”

  Apparently, Lady Marchant didn’t care for him.

  Colonel Gregory introduced Samantha. Mr. Monroe raised her hand to his lips, bowed, and scrutinized her in one all-encompassing glance. “I’m so glad to meet you at last. You’ve already gained a wide reputation for charm.”

  Samantha saw at once the kind of man he was. Light-hearted, laughing, hiding a profound soul and a sharp mind beneath the façade of rake. “I do have that reputation, I admit—among the nursery crowd.”

  Even Lady Marchant laughed in genuine amusement.

  Keeping Samantha’s hand in his, Mr. Monroe said, “Has anyone ever told you you have the most unusual eyes? The color of whisky, I believe I’ve heard them called.”

  Frowning fiercely, Colonel Gregory said, “That will do, Monroe.”

  Samantha took her hand back. “Thank you, Mr. Monroe.” From his tone, from Colonel Gregory’s rejoinder, she knew who had said that. Everyone at the table knew who had said that, and Lady Marchant was not pleased. But for all that Samantha knew she was foolish, she couldn’t hold back her happiness at knowing Colonel Gregory had spoken of her.

  In a repressive tone, Colonel Gregory continued, “Apparently, Monroe, you’ve already met the countess.”

  Duncan bowed so elaborately, with such a sweep of his arm, that his hat swept the floor. “Lady Marchant. The pleasure is all mine.”

  Lady Marchant’s expression resembled that of a woman who had bit into a insect. “Mr. Monroe. I hardly think that our party’s success depends on you.”

  “Our party?” Duncan looked between Lady Marchant and Colonel Gregory. “It’s our party now? Should we be expecting an announcement of betrothal soon?”

  Samantha caught her breath. Lady Marchant and Colonel Gregory were well suited—him so tall and dark, she so petite and brunette. But two nights ago, he had kissed Samantha, and for some reason, she felt that gave her some right to him. To his body. To his mind.

  This had to stop at once. She glanced at him.

  He was watching her. He wasn’t fondly gazing at Lady Marchant. Neither was he correcting Duncan. He watched her as if gauging her reaction.

  So she summoned her most polite, social smile, directed it toward him, then turned it on Duncan.

  “I am the hostess.” Lady Marchant batted her eyelashes at Duncan. “So yes, it is my party, too.”

  “That’s right.” With an insouciant smile, Duncan seated himself at the table. “You are always the hostess. I remember in India, you gave the finest parties. I met the most interesting people at your parties.”

  Lady Marchant replied with an open hostility that made Samantha raise her eyebrows. “You made a fool of yourself at my parties.”

  “So I did.” Duncan tilted his chair back on two legs. “How kind of you to point that out.”

  Samantha didn’t understand the relationship between these two people. They obviously detested each other, yet . . . they almost seemed to enjoy fighting like cats in a bag.

  The full light of the sun struck his face, and for the first time Lady Marchant really looked at him. “Wait a minute. Those marks on your face . . . How did you get them?” She struck the table with her palm. “You’re the man who held up my coach the other night!”

  Lady Marchant captured Samantha’s full attention. “He held up your coach?”

  “This is the man who stopped your coach?” Colonel Gregory asked. “I don’t think that’s possible. He wasn’t even in the district.”

  “It is possible,” Lady Marchant snapped at Colonel Gregory, and Samantha would have wagered for the first time. “I grabbed his hair and kneed him in the face. Look at Mr. Monroe! He ran into something.”

  “A door,” Duncan said, but he grinned at the obvious jest.

  “You dare smirk about this? I’ve accused you of being a highwayman!” She turned to Colonel Gregory and laid her hand on his arm. “I tell you, I’m certain of my accusations.”

  “But Teresa, you told me your coachman chased off the robbers.” Colonel Gregory’s voice held a tone of mockery Samantha hadn’t imagined he would use with Lady Marchant.

  Caught in a lie, Lady Marchant took a breath, then let it out in a sigh. “I fear I may have changed the facts an eensy bit.”

  “Something odd is going on,” Samantha said. Something between the two men, and the facts didn’t add up. “The first night I was here, Colonel Gregory stopped me on the road and went through my reticule. I believe he was looking for bandits, although why he thought I, a woman on foot, would be a highwayman, I still don’t understand. Perhaps Mr. Monroe is working with Colonel Gregory.”

  The two men exchanged glances.

  Lady Marchant bolted to her feet. “My heavens, that’s it! Isn’t it? You both look as guilty as two soldiers caught drinking on watch.”

  “Miss Prendregast is correct,” Colonel Gregory admitted. “We roam the district at night to try and catch the bandits that continue to plague us.” He bent a stern look on them. “But I’d appreciate it if you two women kept this quiet.”

  “You keep the district safe by robbing travelers?” Lady Marchant was clearly outraged.

  “I didn’t rob you,” Duncan insisted.

  “Because I held your pistol on you and threatened to shoot you in the head.”

  Samantha looked at the petite Lady Marchant with new respect. Perhaps she had misjudged the lady. She was both smarter and tougher than she appeared. It was something to remember.

  Duncan continued, “I wasn’t going to search you. We stopped you by
mistake.”

  Lady Marchant still attacked him. “How could you think I, traveling in a coach with a crest, could be a bandit?”

  “I assure you, Teresa, he’s telling the truth,” Colonel Gregory said.

  Lady Marchant scrutinized him. Then her eyes widened. “You were one of the other men!”

  Samantha enjoyed seeing Colonel Gregory squirm.

  “Yes. I admit it. I was. And as I said—”

  “I don’t believe it,” Lady Marchant said. “It doesn’t even make sense. Will you ride out and rob your guests as they come in?”

  “Not at all,” Colonel Gregory soothed her. “Everything is under control.”

  Lady Marchant turned to Samantha and in the first gesture of female comradeship Samantha had seen, asked, “Do you understand any of this?”

  “No, my lady, but I understand one thing.” Samantha allowed her eyes to twinkle at Duncan. “If I were Mr. Monroe, I would be wary before I tried to hold you up again.”

  Duncan’s eyes twinkled back. “In the future, I intend to take the greatest care of Lady Marchant.”

  At Maitland Manor, the Featherstonebaugh servants rose and fell in a wave of obeisance. Usually Valda enjoyed the sight, but now, livid with rage, she swept up the steps and past the line of servants without looking at any of them.

  She heard the gasps and titters from the maids as Rupert tottered in behind her, pinching their cheeks—and lower.

  Her eyes narrowed. The stupid old fool had even tried his moves on her, and she, like an idiot, had succumbed. Then, while she slept, he had attempted to sneak out and escape from her. He still didn’t believe they were in danger. If only he didn’t know so much, she would kill him.

  She would enjoy killing him.

  As she stepped inside, the butler followed and took her coat and hat. “My lady, we didn’t know when to expect you.”

  She glanced around. Maitland was a beautiful home, a glorious eighteenth-century manor set in a jewellike valley, stocked full of great works of art and valuable knickknacks, and she would have to leave it all. It made her sick. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.” Except for the map she’d stolen on her way here. A cretin named Captain Farwell had left it locked in his trunk, and while she didn’t usually take things so easily traced, it no longer mattered if Captain Farwell knew where his map had gone, because she was taking transport to Ireland, and then on to Italy, and no one could trace her there.

  The map showed the location and number of every English spy in Russia. She would sell it for a tidy sum, and that would be a kind of insurance in case something went wrong. It was just her old sense of caution flaring up; except for Rupert and his stupid antics, since they’d left Blythe Manor, everything had gone absolutely right.

  It was enough to frighten a woman to death.

  The butler continued, “But your guest did warn us you would be coming, so—”

  She swung on him. “My guest?” The back of her neck prickled. “Who would that be?”

  The voice she wanted least to hear—an accented voice, an elegant voice—echoed through the foyer. “Me, of course. Your dear friend, Count Gayeff Fiers Pashenka.”

  Unhurriedly, she turned back to face him.

  Tall, handsome, austere, he stood with a pistol concealed—although not well—in his pocket. A pistol pointed right at her heart.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The guest cottage was very nice. Tiny, but nice. The perfect refuge for someone who wanted to avoid the guests pouring onto the estate.

  Whitewashed inside and out, the cottage was on a single level, and set in a garden of white phlox and pinks, purple pansies and scarlet begonias. A covered porch led to the front door, with rocking chairs and a table in case the guest wished to sit and admire the view of the mountains.

  Samantha did not, so she stayed indoors, wandering between the two rooms, wishing she’d been firm with Colonel Gregory about attending this party. She’d spent the night awake in her new bed, imagining the different kinds of disasters that could occur as she met and mingled with members of the ton. Adorna had sent her to Cumbria to get her away from notoriety, not to court it.

  “Will ye be leaving now, Miss Prendregast?” Clarinda called from the bedchamber.

  “Not yet.” Samantha paced vigorously back and forth across the front chamber, swinging her arms like a soldier on parade.

  Yes, this cottage suited her very well. The ceilings were high, with open rafters that rose right up to the thatching and gave an illusion of spaciousness. This room held a small table with chairs, ideal for two people should they wish to eat or play a game, and a cupboard that held dishes and blankets. A blue brocade sofa stood before the white stone fireplace in the inner wall, and that fireplace opened not only to the front room, but on the other side of the wall it opened into the bedchamber.

  The bedchamber was ideal, with a dresser where Clarinda placed Samantha’s unmentionables and a cupboard with hooks for her clothes. An oak-framed mirror hung over the dresser. The bed was smaller than Samantha’s bed in the big house, but was sufficient for a single sleeper, and the brown-striped eiderdown was as thick and plush as the one she’d left.

  It was the perfect, cozy spot for a romantic tryst. Her eyes narrowed. Was that the real reason he’d put her here?

  But no. That was foolishness. He’d kissed her, yes, but she’d seen his distrust of her when he suggested the cottage. He obviously suspected her of some nefarious deeds. The theft of his wife’s miniature, perhaps. Or perhaps he thought she wished to seduce him. He’d made his opinion clear enough yesterday. Women wanted security, and they’d do anything to get it. He suspected she would seduce him if she could, when in fact he had seduced her. Dreadful man, but typical, too, to blame her for his fault.

  “Colonel Gregory will be wondering where ye are, miss,” Clarinda called again.

  And that was the problem, wasn’t it? In between worrying whether she’d be recognized, Samantha fretted about Colonel Gregory. Blast the man! He made her so angry. It was bad enough that he’d kissed her. That was a single event, one she could have eventually dismissed as two people seeking to temper their mutual rage. But when he’d said she had to move out because she tempted him beyond sanity . . . well, she couldn’t ignore that. Especially if she had to see him every day in a social situation where she was not his governess, but his equal.

  She stopped and rubbed her forehead.

  Clarinda came to the bedchamber door. “No wonder ye’ve been dragging yer feet, miss. Why didn’t ye tell me the children were coming t’ fetch ye?” Grinning, she wiped her hands on her apron. “They certainly look festive in their new gowns.”

  Walking to the window, Samantha parted the lace curtains. Colonel Gregory had cleverly sent the one command she couldn’t ignore—one delivered by the girls.

  They fluttered along, laughing and talking, the older ones holding the little ones’ hands. Colonel Gregory had taken Samantha’s advice, getting each one a different, solid color so they looked like a miniature ruffled rainbow of yellow, blue, red, violet, green, and pink. The little girls wore the darkest colors. Agnes wore the pink, and it matched the excited color in her cheeks. Even Mara managed to look tidy in her green gown with its modest lace collar. Their bonnets matched their gowns, each tied beneath their chins with contrasting ribbons.

  For the first time during this day, Samantha smiled. “Didn’t the gowns come out beautifully? Aren’t the girls pretty?”

  Clarinda crossed to her side. “Yes, miss, that they are. Ye’ve made them happy, no doubt about it. Been waiting fer someone like ye, they have.” Firmly, she patted Samantha on the shoulder. “Remember that, miss, when ye’re thinking ye don’t belong amongst the noble folk.”

  Samantha looked sideways at Clarinda. “Have I been so obvious?”

  “It’s natural to worry when ye get pitched in among the gentry, but ye’ll hold yer own. Why, Mrs. Shelbourn says ye’ve got as pretty a manner as any lady, better conversation than m
ost, and ye fit right in anywhere ye choose t’ go.”

  A warm tide of satisfaction swept Samantha. “Lady Bucknell says that, too. Thank you, Clarinda. I needed to hear it again.”

  “So go on, now, and meet the children, and let them take ye to the party.”

  And if someone recognized her . . . well, she would cope with that situation as it arose. That was how she’d always lived before, taking one episode at a time, and she would not allow Colonel Gregory to knock her so off balance. She couldn’t blame the man for doing the right thing, after all, in putting her as far away from him as possible, and once the party was over she would return to being a governess. She had only to get through the next three days.

  She wouldn’t think about the rest of the year.

  Decision made, she went to open the door.

  Clarinda moved in front of her. “No, miss. Yer maid should open the door t’ yer guests.” Flinging the door open, she waited until the children pranced up onto the porch. Then Clarinda curtsied with great formality. “Whom may I say is calling?”

  “It’s us, Clarinda.” Kyla sounded bewildered. “Don’t you know us?”

  “Sure she does, she’s pretending we’re real grown-ups paying a call,” Henrietta explained.

  “Ohh.” Kyla lifted her chubby little chin in a superior manner. “I knew that.”

  Standing in the shadows of the front room, Samantha watched as Agnes lined up the children.

  Vivian said, “We are the Misses Gregory, come to visit Miss Prendregast.”

  “I’ll see if she’s in.” While the children squirmed, Clarinda stepped inside and announced, “The Misses Gregory, ma’am.”

  With a gracious smile, Samantha glided onto the porch. “It’s so kind of you to pay me a call.” Then the pleasure of seeing them caught up with her, and she clasped her hands together. “Don’t you girls look beautiful?”

  “Yeth, we do!” Emmeline shouted.

  “So do you, Miss Prendregast.” Mara sounded awed.

  “Thank you.” Samantha smoothed her skirt. Clarinda had taken one of Samantha’s day gowns, a bell skirt of sapphire blue-and-gold plaid poplin, and added flat gold braid to the off-the-shoulder neckline. Adorna would have approved of the change, for it accentuated Samantha’s long neck and slender hands, and gave Samantha confidence. “May I invite you ladies in?”