The Bargain

by Mary J. Putney

  Sadly she contemplated the final resting place of the three brothers. Once they had been babies, symbols of hope. Someone must have loved them. Had they loved each other? What fatal flaw in their minds had made them heedless and cruel?

  She still carried the bouquet, so on impulse she laid a single rose on each grave. After she had placed the last one, she sensed David come up behind her.

  He rested a hand on her shoulder. “You have a generous spirit.”

  “Easy for me to be generous. I’m not the one who was tormented,” she replied. “They are gone, and you are still alive. The time for anger is past.”

  His hand tightened. “You are wise. I shall try to do as you suggest.”

  Briefly she rested her hand on his. Wisdom was always easier to offer than to apply to oneself. If only she could let her past go. “Where does your father lie?”

  “Over here.” With a light hand at the small of her back, he guided her to the other side of the family monument. He stared down at the stone, expression pensive. “I stopped by here once, on the way to join my regiment. That was the only visit since the day my father was buried.”

  Silently Jocelyn handed him the rest of the bouquet. He removed a small golden rose bud before laying the rest of the flowers on his father’s grave. Then he turned and tucked the bud into Jocelyn’s lapel, his palm lightly brushing her breast as he worked the rose into a button hole. The small, unintended intimacy was strangely provocative. Casual acquaintances kept a certain distance between them. She and David had closed that space without thinking.

  “I’ve brought a picnic lunch.” he said. “Shall we enjoy it in the orchard?”

  With a smile, she took his arm and they returned to the horses. She didn’t even notice how easily they matched their steps to each other.

  The orchard covered several rolling hills, and David took them to the crest of the highest, with a long view over the Wye and the patchwork fields of Westholme. He wanted to flood Jocelyn’s senses with beauty so that she would never want to leave.

  He helped her from her horse, enjoying the weight of her hands on his shoulders, the brush of her heavy skirts against his legs. She no longer withdrew from him. Instead, she accepted his touch, perhaps even lingered with conscious provocation.

  Moving away, she picked an apple from the nearest tree. “This orchard must be spectacular in the spring, when the trees are blooming.”

  “It is. I used to love to lie here and listen to the hum of bees. The scent was intoxicating.” He unpacked his saddlebags, starting with a blanket to spread on the grass. “The trees haven’t been pruned and tended as they should be, but most are still healthy and producing apples. A year or two of proper care should restore the crop to where it was in my father’s time.”

  After feeding the apple to the gray mare, she gazed toward the house, whose roof was visible in the distance. “In the peace of the country, it’s hard to believe that the bustle of London even exists.”

  “London has its charms, but I’ll be happy to spend most of my time here.” He removed packets of food and a stone jug of cider from his saddlebag. “Everything in our luncheon was produced on the estate.”

  Gracefully she seated herself in a foam of skirts as he set out cheese and ham and fresh baked bread. Even the onions had been grown and pickled on the estate, in Westholme vinegar. After the morning’s riding, they both indulged themselves with country appetites. He liked that she didn’t peck at her food like a nervous bird.

  “Utterly perfect,” she sighed after finishing her meal. “To ride the land, eat the fruits of your own fields—nothing could be more satisfying. My father always said the strength of England was that we are country folk at heart, not like the French aristocrats who lived at court and lost touch with their roots.”

  “Don’t limit it to England. Say instead that it’s the strength of the British,” he suggested as he finished the last of the cheese.

  “Sorry. With true English arrogance, I too often overlook the other peoples of Britain.”

  “If you’d grown up here, you wouldn’t,” he said lazily as he lay back on the blanket. “These are the Welsh Marches, the border zones that the English Marcher lords held against the wild raiding Celts. This country was fought over for centuries, and memories are long.”

  “Where in Wales did your mother come from?”

  “Caerphilly. Her father was a schoolmaster. He and my father shared a passion for classifying wildflowers and carried on a scholarly correspondence for years. They met when my father was near Caerphilly and wanted to show his correspondent what he thought was a new species of wild orchid.”

  He smiled as he remembered the story his mother had told her children many times. “The orchid turned out to have already been classified, so my father collected my mother instead. He was quite unworldly, and perfectly happy to fall in love with someone beneath his station. I think he believed that if he loved my mother, everyone else would.”

  “That was definitely unworldly,” Jocelyn said dryly.

  “His first wife was the granddaughter of a duke, and she raised her sons to think that rank was all. My mother never had a chance of winning them over.”

  Jocelyn took a swallow of cider, then handed the stone jug to him. “Do you feel more Welsh or English?”

  He considered as he drank from the jug. “On the outside, definitely English, a product of where I grew up and how I was educated. But on the inside . . . ,” he chuckled. “The Jesuits say that if they have a boy until he is seven years old, he is theirs for life. Most of us have mothers, not Jesuits, so by that measure I’m a fey Welshman under the facade of an English officer and gentleman.”

  Jocelyn looked away, her profile still, and he remembered that she hadn’t had her mother for as long as seven years. How old had she been when her family had shattered? Old enough to be permanently scarred.

  While he was wondering if he should ask her about that, she said in the cool, detached tone he hadn’t heard much lately, “If you are more Welsh than English, you must love daffodils and leeks.”

  “Guilty,” he said promptly. “In springtime, Westholme is covered with a blanket of daffodils. Sally and I helped my mother plant the bulbs when we were children.”

  Jocelyn smiled, relaxed again. “And now you have come home. Sometimes life provides unexpected happy endings.”

  Wondering if their marriage would be one of those, he said softly, “I’m sorry there will be no happy ending for you and Charlton.”

  She drew up her knees and linked her hands around them. “It’s the way of the world for women to be taken from their homes and have to create new ones. Someday I will find another home.”

  Unable to let such an opportunity pass, he raised himself on one elbow, his gaze intense. “Westholme could be yours.”

  She swallowed hard and looked away, and he felt the presence of her damned duke sitting down between them to share their picnic. Voice constricted, she whispered, “The price would be too high.”

  “Would it?” He put a note of command in his voice, and she reluctantly turned to face him. He held out his hand. Uncertainly she took it, and he lay back on the blanket, pulling her down on top of him. Cradling her head in his palms, he drew her mouth to his, murmuring, “Is this a high price?”

  “You know it isn’t, you wretch,” she sighed before their lips met, languorous in the summer heat.

  She tasted of sunshine and cider. The kisses of the last few days had made her less shy, and she explored his mouth with an innocent enthusiasm that was deliciously arousing. As the kiss continued, he used his hands to arrange her so that their hips pressed together, her skirts falling around him. “Ahh . . .” he exhaled. “That’s a very nice place for you to be.”

  He tugged her skirt high enough so that he could slide a hand up her stocking clad leg over firm, warm curves. As his fingertips trailed along her inner thigh, she rolled her hips against his. He groaned, hardening against the soft press of her body, and too bl
asted many layers of fabric between them.

  A shiver of laughter in her voice, she said, “I don’t think you would be able to convince a court that you are incapable of marital duties just now.”

  “How fortunate that we’ve already stated our case, and there are no judges present.” Catching her around the waist, he rolled over so that he was above her, her slender throat perfectly positioned for light, teasing nibbles.

  Breathless, she said, “Isn’t too much restraint difficult for you?”

  It was both question and warning that she did not want to go too far. Neither did he, not yet. “I would rather suffer a little here than be calm and sane anywhere else.”

  He claimed her mouth again, his hand caressing the hidden swells of her breasts until both of them were panting. Wanting more, he whispered, “You must be warm in that heavy habit.”

  With one hand he unfastened the gold braid frogs that secured the front of her blue jacket. It opened, the dark fabric making her pale skin seem impossibly soft and delicate. Under the jacket was a simple, low-cut white bodice, which revealed a teasing bit of cleavage. He licked it as if she were an iced cake laid out for his delight.

  She stroked his nape with her fingertips, the nails sending sharp little shocks of excitement through him. He moved his hand lower. Her skirt had twisted above her knees, making it easy to caress upward to the juncture of her thighs. She gasped when he touched the sensitive flesh. After the first instant of shock, her legs separated and she began pulsing against his rhythmic strokes.

  She made a thick, breathless sound that was unbearably erotic. Feverishly he reached for the buttons of his breeches, wrenching at them until a moment of clarity struck. Damnation, he was forgetting everything but the urgency of burying himself inside her. For a moment he teetered on the brink, the race of his blood fighting his saner, better self.

  Sanity won. Jocelyn’s body might be eager, but her mind and heart had not yet been won, and seduction might bring a moment’s pleasure at the cost of losing her trust.

  With a groan, he rolled onto his back, his whole body throbbing so powerfully that he could barely gasp, “Having reached the limits of restraint, it’s time to stop.”

  Lacing her fingers through his, hard, she gasped, “Are you trying to drive me mad?” in a voice choked with frustration and laughter.

  “Certainly I’m driving myself mad, without even trying.” He turned his head so that they were face to face. As he studied the hazel depths and the unguarded emotion in her eyes, he felt a rush of tenderness. Every day they grew closer, which meant that even madness was worth the price.

  Chapter 28

  If David’s intention was to deprive Jocelyn of her wits, he was doing a good job of it, she thought wryly. The next days were quiet on the surface, but he, and the rapturous sensations she had experienced, were always in her thoughts. Passion was such a dangerous commodity that for the first time she understood why women had chosen to take the veil in earlier centuries.

  But she was not cut out for a convent, and besides, that was no place for a modern Englishwoman, especially one who wanted children. No doubt her reaction to David’s caresses had much to do with the fact that it was all new to her. And of course she liked him very well. . . .

  Whenever her thoughts reached that point, she started to daydream about lying wrapped in his arms, then had to drag herself back to mundane reality, of which there was no shortage. Revitalizing the house and staff was a demanding task.

  The industrious cleaning crew banished years of grime in a few days, and several members were hired as permanent staff. Hugh Morgan arrived two days before he was expected. From Marie’s satisfied expression, she was the lure that had persuaded him to cut his holiday short. Jocelyn promptly put him to work.

  Furnishings that had been battered by years of neglect were exiled to the attics, while well-made items from the time of David’s grandfather were brought down for cleaning and repair. Several pieces needed reupholstering, but one of the village women proved to be a wizard with a needle. A set of unused brocade draperies was transformed into handsome chair and sofa coverings.

  Besides furniture and draperies, Jocelyn discovered splendid Oriental carpets that had been rolled and put away for some incomprehensible reason. Packed in ancient, crumbling sprigs of lavender to keep moths away, the carpets were intact and beautiful. Combining them with the restored furniture and the best draperies made the main rooms look loved and lived in. A complete transformation would take years, but much had been done in a short time, and she enjoyed the work immensely.

  Her only diversions were morning rides with David. Together, they explored the fields and lanes of Westholme. No more picnics among the apple trees, though. She was distracted enough already.

  Nonetheless, she welcomed his kisses whenever they met.

  At the beginning of Jocelyn’s second week at Westholme, Stretton interrupted their morning meeting when he cleared his throat in the way that meant he wished to raise a different, possibly questionable, topic. Having learned his habits, Jocelyn said patiently, “Yes, Stretton?”

  “It occurs to me, Lady Presteyne, you being newlyweds and all, you might not realize that tomorrow is his lordship’s birthday.”

  She laid down her pencil indignantly. “Why, the wretch never mentioned it! And to think he chastised me for not mentioning my birthday. August twenty-seventh then. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’m not even sure how old he is. It . . . it never seemed important.” Not when she was marrying a man with no future.

  “He will be thirty-two, my lady.”

  She’d thought David much older when they first met. Now thirty-two seemed just right. “We must do something special for dinner tomorrow night.”

  Together they worked out a menu of David’s favorite dishes, with as many ingredients as possible homegrown. Jocelyn was writing the word champagne—to be served at the table, not stalked in the cellars—when Stretton cleared his throat again. She really would have to train him to just speak out. “Yes?”

  “There is something else that might be appropriate for tomorrow,” the butler said. “If you wouldn’t mind descending to the servants’ quarters?”

  She had been in the kitchen and pantries, of course, but hadn’t seen Stretton’s personal sitting room. He stood aside as she entered so that her eyes went directly to a medium-size painting on the opposite wall. It showed a tall, dignified man in late middle age, a much younger woman, and two children about three and seven years old.

  As she studied the portrait more closely, she realized that everyone except the man had eyes of the same distinctive green. “David’s family,” she said softly. “How did the painting come to be here?”

  “The portrait was in the old lord’s bedroom. After he died, Master Wilfred told me to take the painting and burn it. That didn’t seem right to me, my lady, so I put it in one of the kitchen storerooms, knowing the young lord would never enter the servants’ quarters. When I eventually rose to the position of butler, I moved it in here.”

  “You did well.” Jocelyn couldn’t take her gaze off the portrait. It had been painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was a master at capturing the essence of his subjects. David’s father had a scholarly mien, a man who might not be too attentive to daily life. His mother was a small, serene woman with dark hair and rosy cheeks like Mrs. Morgan’s. Perhaps that glowing complexion was Welsh. Sally was clearly her daughter, with an air of stubborn determination even at age three.

  As for David, he looked absolutely adorable. Would a son of his have that same look of good-natured mischief?

  Reminding herself that such speculations were none of her business, she said, “This will mean a great deal to Lord Presteyne.” She gave Stretton a curious glance. “Why didn’t you leave? Wilfred sounds absolutely dreadful.”

  “He was,” the butler said candidly. “But this is my home. Strettons have always served Lancasters.” His tone became ironic. “It is unnecessary that we like them.”
r />   “You seem to like David.”

  “Who would not? He was always very different from his brothers. Most protective he was of his sister, and without a trace of snobbery. His mother’s influence, of course. She was a true lady, despite her birth. The stories I could tell you . . . ” He shook his head reminiscently.

  Jocelyn decided it would be poor policy to encourage Stretton in gossip, fascinating though it was. “Please have the painting brought upstairs so I can decide where to hang it.”

  After much thought, Jocelyn decided the portrait would look best above the mantel in the main drawing room. She arranged with Stretton to hang it during dinner the next night. Until then, the butler was to keep the painting hidden away. She guessed that it would be the best possible birthday gift.

  The next afternoon’s post brought a letter from Aunt Elvira. Jocelyn studied the letter with foreboding, sure that she would find nothing good inside. She almost put it aside until after David’s birthday, but curiosity won. She slit the wafer. The single sheet read:

  My dear niece,

  Investigation has proved that you never met Major David Lancaster in Spain, and that your “long-standing attachment” is no more than a cynical marriage of convenience.

  My lawyer has also discovered that you are filing for an annulment. Neither of these things is what your dear father had in mind for his only daughter, and I am assured that a court will take an exceedingly dim view of your attempt to circumvent the conditions of his last will and testament.