An overly large wing chair stood near the fireplace, quite out of place with the other exquisitely wrought pieces. It was his father’s chair, and Julien always found himself grateful that his sire had made this one exception to the room’s decor in the name of comfort.
It was in this chair that Julien sat himself, stretching his Hessians to the glowing fire.
Mannering approached him, coughed slightly to gain his attention, and turned inquiring eyes upon the plate of Mrs. Cradshaw’s blueberry muffins that he had carried with him from the dining room.
Julien said, “Good God, Mannering, those damned muffins are still here on their plate and not in my belly. Will Mrs. Cradshaw refuse to serve me my breakfast?”
Mannering said, unbending a bit, “Mrs. Cradshaw will understand, my lord.”
Julien waved his hand at the small table at his side. “No, Mannering, I don’t want to brook her displeasure my first evening home. I promise you, I shall do them justice before the evening is out.”
Mannering set the plate of muffins at his side and made his way to the sideboard to fetch a decanter of claret. A smile flitted over Julien’s face as he recalled Mannering’s herculean struggle to help him into his formfitting coat. He had shown unbounded relief when Julien divested himself of his own boots, a task that most certainly would have shaken Mannering’s dignified image of himself. Perhaps, he thought, Mannering would not now think his valet, Timmens, a bad sort after all.
“Will that be all you require, my lord?”
Julien, aware of his old retainer’s fatigue, said quickly, “Yes, Mannering. Do retire now, I will snuff all the candles when I go up.”
Mannering turned and strode in his stately manner out of the library, softly closing the double doors behind him.
Julien leaned forward and poured himself a glass of claret. He took a sip and sat back, savoring the quality. He began absently to twirl the stem between long, slender fingers, his thoughts turning to Percy and Hugh, whom he expected to arrive the next evening. He discovered now that he regretted having invited them to join him here. Aside from the fishing and shooting, the time he would spend in their company promised to be no different from his activities in London.
Julien frowned. He decided after a long drink of claret that he was simply becoming hermetic.
A ghost of a smile played over his lips as he pictured Percy’s boredom at being incarcerated in the country. He found himself concluding, without much regret, that in all likelihood Percy and perhaps even Hugh would leave St. Clair after just a few days.
The claret curled about warmly in his stomach and he began to grow drowsy. He eyed the muffins with a marked lack of enthusiasm and admitted that he couldn’t manage even a nibble. He decided to take them to his room and down several the next morning before breakfast.
He fell asleep not long thereafter, comfortably stretched at his full length on the large Tudor bed, his head clear of the effects of too much drink. It was a pleasant condition, one he had seldom experienced in the past several months.
3
Julien awoke later than intended the following morning. Upon opening his eyes, he found himself looking up into his valet’s perturbed face.
“Good God, Timmens, what a face to be greeted with after a pleasant night’s sleep. Go wash it or something.”
“Good morning, my lord,” Timmens said, his voice as stiff as Julien’s malacca cane. He gave an audible sniff of displeasure and helped his master into his dressing gown.
“Come, man, surely things are not so bad as all that. I assure you that even though my Hessians and coat have suffered in your absence, you won’t find them quite beyond repair.”
“They were awful, my lord. I have already expended a goodly number of hours endeavoring to restore your Hessians, and it was an experience that I would not care to repeat.”
Julien paused a moment, now fully awake and aware that the sensibilities of his stiff-lipped valet were ruffled in the extreme. He said with perfect seriousness, “Of course I have missed your fine service, Timmens. You are a grand valet, a gentleman’s gentleman of exceptionable ability, whom I find invaluable and—”
“I quite understand, my lord, indeed I do. Do allow me to assist you now in the renewed quiet of the morning.”
Finally dressed, Julien was at the point of escaping to his breakfast when he chanced to see the plate of muffins beside his bed, still untouched. He eyed Timmens, who was arranging his hairbrush and shaving gear in too-neat rows on the dressing table. A small punishment, just a bit of revenge, he thought, would be just the thing—ah, but subtle, that was important. He cleared his throat and said, “Timmens, you see the muffins here by my bed?”
“Yes, my lord, they are indeed muffins.”
“As a reward for your excellent service this morning, I require you to enjoy at least two of them before allowing the maids to enter the room.”
Timmens darted his rheumy eyes again to the muffins, bemused by this ambiguous token of praise. He realized that his master was awaiting his answer and said, “Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord. It is a fine reward for my invaluable services, if one doesn’t think of other rewards which would be perhaps even more tasty to the palate.”
Not more than an hour later, in fine good humor, Julien mounted his Arabian mare, Astarte, and rode out of the park at a comfortable canter to inspect his lands.
Bright sunlight poured down through the crisp morning air, as if bending all of its brilliance on St. Clair. With a great sense of well-being, Julien turned Astarte into an open field and gave her her head. His body moved smoothly with hers, swaying in rhythm to her firm stride. The chirping of birds and the gentle rustle of leaves and foliage were a welcome change from the ever-present noise of the London streets.
Julien quite lost track of time, and some time later, realizing that Astarte was blowing hard, he reined in, straightened in the saddle, and looked about him. A short distance ahead lay a large wood, forming a near-circle around him. He saw with vague interest that he was no longer on St. Clair land.
“Come, Astarte, let us see what lies ahead. Perhaps we’ll find a leftover dragon from my boyhood still lurking in those woods, waiting for me to stick him with my sword.”
Julien made out a small path just to his left that led into the woods and click-clicked Astarte forward. The floor of the woods was green with spongy moss that deadened the sound of Astarte’s hooves.
All too soon the trees began to thin and Julien could make out a small clearing a few yards ahead. Suddenly he knew he wasn’t alone. He wasn’t certain how he knew, except that his ears had grown used to the sounds of the forest.
He allowed Astarte to move slowly forward toward the clearing. His vision no longer blocked by the trees, he stiffened at the strange sight that met his eyes.
There, in the small clearing not twenty yards away from him, stood two men, pistols raised properly in front of their faces, standing back to back. There were no dragons to slay that Julien could see.
Good Lord, he thought, appalled, they’re going to duel. He thought blankly that surely that wasn’t right. Dueling was for dawn on a foggy morning with seconds standing about slapping their hands together for warmth.
There were no seconds—no one but the two duelists, who now began to pace away from each other, one man’s voice calling out the paces in a loud, clear voice, “One, two, three . . .”
Julien gently dug his heels into Astarte’s side, and she obediently moved forward, making no sound until they reached the edge of the clearing.
Fascinated, Julien stared fixedly at the two men. Surely it was just some sort of practice, surely the pistols weren’t loaded. Surely.
“Eight, nine, ten!”
The men turned in quick, smooth motions and faced each other. One of them pulled up his pistol in a quick, jerky movement, stiffened his arm, and fired.
The gun’s report rang through the silence of the woods. The pistols were most certainly loaded.
The bu
llet missed its mark, for the other man remained standing, and now, in what seemed an endlessly cruel delay, he slowly raised his pistol and aimed it at his opponent’s chest.
Julien found himself frozen into inaction, his hands clutching the reins, simply disbelieving. The man stood proud and stiff, waiting, without a sound.
With a nasty laugh the man fired. To Julien’s horror, he didn’t raise his pistol skyward and delope. No, he fired straight at the man. His opponent grabbed his chest, gave a loud moan of pain, staggered forward, and finally fell heavily to the ground, arms and legs flung wide.
The spell broken, Julien dug in his heels, and Astarte leaped forward. He pulled her up short not ten yards from where the man lay, and jumped from his horse. With unbelieving eyes, he saw that the man who had committed this dishonorable murder was leaning against a tree, holding his sides in laughter.
Ignoring him, Julien strode quickly to the fallen man and knelt down. He was small, slight of build. Julien gathered the scrawny body in his arms, and suddenly, overwhelmed with fury, yelled at the murderer, who now stood in shocked silence, as if aware, finally, of the enormity of what he had done, “You damned idiot! What in God’s name have you done, man?”
The man raised his hand in a helpless gesture, but seemed unable to come forward and speak.
To Julien’s shock, the slight figure in his arms began to struggle violently, and he gazed down for the first time into the face of the fallen man. A startled pair of the greenest eyes he’d ever seen stared up at him.
Those moss-green eyes didn’t waver from his face, but they did blink in rapid succession. Pale lips parted in surprise and then two dimples peeped through on white cheeks.
“Good grief, it’s a stranger. Why, sir, I think you have much mistaken the matter.”
“My God,” Julien said, so taken aback he nearly dropped her. “You’re nothing but a damned girl.”
“Well, I am a girl, that is true enough, but I’ve never thought of myself as nothing. Also, I don’t believe you need to damn me for it.” Her damned dimples deepened.
Finding himself without a word to say, Julien instinctively dropped his arms from about her shoulders. With the utmost unconcern she pulled herself away and came up to her knees, her hands resting lightly on her breeched thighs.
“Harry,” she called, laughter lurking in her voice, “I do believe we’ve given the gentleman something of a shock. Stop standing there like a half-wit and come here. Thank the Lord he didn’t interrupt our duel. That would have been beyond what I could have accepted.”
Julien, finding that his addled senses were returning to normal, looked up to see a young man coming toward them, a sheepish grin on his cherubic face. He rose slowly and turned to look down at the girl. He was not happy. He was beginning to feel very much the fool, a condition that made his innards cramp. His eyes narrowed on the girl’s face, and he said in a voice colder than the St. Clair lake in January, “Are you in the habit, my girl, of playacting at such deadly games?”
The dimples quivered and his indignation grew. She turned to him and said, calm as a nun at her prayers, “When you have recovered from your very slight embarrassment and obvious mortification, dear sir, you will realize that it was not we who interrupted you. This is Brandon land, and how my brother and I wish to spend our time is certainly no concern of yours, whoever you may be.”
“Now, Kate,” the young man said, “Don’t get yourself into an argument, else you just might find yourself fighting a real duel. The gentleman was understandably worried. I did fire at you straight on. It would scare the devil out of any man.” He planted himself neatly in front of the girl.
To Julien he said, “I do beg your pardon, sir. Kate here must needs know all the masculine sports. I must say she did overdo it a bit, died much too lavishly this time, with much too much drama and flourish. Come on, Kate, don’t bounce around and pretend you’re angry. Stand up here and pretend rather that you’re a lady, if you can even begin to manage it in those wretched breeches.”
The girl, who had jumped to her feet with more speed than grace, now turned on her brother. “Dammit, Harry, there’s no reason for you to apologize or explain anything. The gentleman was trespassing, clear as the wart on Aunt Mildred’s face. I believe he should explain his presence here. And I wasn’t too dramatic this time. I thought flailing the arms a bit was a nice touch.”
“I do beg your pardon, ma’am,” Julien said easily now. “Who the devil are you two?”
Harry cast a quelling glance at his sister and quickly extended his hand to Julien. “Harry Brandon, sir. And this is my sister, Katharine.”
Julien grinned down at the young man and extended his own hand. “I’m St. Clair, you know. My lands lie not far distant from yours.”
“Goodness, what an honor for us. So you’re the absent landlord, the most noble earl of March.”
He instinctively disliked her snide tone. His hackles rose a bit, but he drew on the sangfroid for which he was renowned. He raised his brows and gave her a mocking bow. “Why, yes, I do have that honor.”
It was a well-delivered snub, but Julien quickly realized that Katharine Brandon didn’t recognize that she’d just been slighted, or should have been, by a renowned gentleman. Her head remained cocked pertly to one side as she said, “Yes, I suppose it could be regarded as an honor to some. Perhaps to a few who wouldn’t know any better.”
A silver glint came to his gray eyes. So she wanted to cross verbal swords with him, did she. He said swiftly, enjoying himself suddenly, “It is a particular honor to ladies of breeding.”
He maliciously eyed those very tight-fitting breeches of hers. He expected her to blush to the roots of her hair at the very least, perhaps even to stammer incoherently until he would graciously excuse her, for he had many times achieved this result with but the mildest of set-downs.
He didn’t receive even the very least, for she said in a revoltingly cheerful voice, all the while brushing leaves from her breeches, “I suppose it is difficult to evince breeding when one is engaged in a duel.” She raised those green eyes to Julien’s face and added as brazenly as a hussy in Soho, “But you must admit, dear sir, that breeches are much more the thing when one must fall down and play dead. Imagine what a gown would do. Why, petticoats would be spilling all over the place. You would be quite horrified, being so very proper and so dreadfully well bred.”
Before Julien could come up with words, rather than just boxing her ears as his hands itched to do, she added, seeming to ponder the problem, “Perhaps it is a sad trial to gentlemen of your breeding and, er, advanced age, and nobleness, to accept with any degree of composure such trifles as ladies dueling.”
For the first time in his life, Julien Edward Mowbray St. Clair, earl of March, found himself with a tongue dead in his mouth.
“Kate, really,” her brother said, grabbing her shoulders and giving her a good shake, but not nearly a hard enough shake, Julien thought. “Sir, she’s overzealous in her insults. She usually is, however. She truly doesn’t mean half of what she says, particularly if she’s intent on besting anyone, which she is more times than not. She cuts me up with her tongue better than the cook wields her knife.”
“Overzealous. What a thing to say, Harry. I see it all clearly now. Just because he’s a man and an earl, you’re ready to spring to his side and leave me here alone in a ditch.”
Julien looked back and forth between the pair and felt a muscle twitch at the corner of his mouth. Although he found the manners of this hoydenish girl deplorable, the situation was ridiculous in the extreme, and he could not help breaking into a grin.
“Miss Brandon,” he said gravely, gazing into her upturned face, “please accept my profound apologies. You look most charming in breeches, though I confess that seeing swirling petticoats would doubtless be an equal treat.”
She shot him a look of pure mischief and said in a demure voice, “But, sir, I could not look more charming in breeches than you do.’ ”
Julien would have liked to take his hand to her breeched buttocks, but realizing in all truth that this pleasure must be denied him, he threw up his hands and gave up the battle. He forgot about an earl’s consequence, threw back his head, and gave way to a shout of laughter. “Where, Miss Brandon, have you and your brother been hiding yourselves? I count it my misfortune not to have met the pair of you before.”
Harry replied quickly to prevent any further impertinence from his unpredictable sister, “It’s not so strange, my lord. You are not often here.”
“As I said, an absent landlord,” she said, and robbed the words of insult by grinning impudently up at him.
Julien felt a quite odd sensation, equally as vague and undefined as the nagging thoughts that had pursued him from London to St. Clair. He turned slowly to Harry and said thoughtfully, “No, Harry, I believe you’re right. My visits have been infrequent and of rather short duration, up until now. It doesn’t do to be absent from one’s home for too long. One never knows just what might pop up in the meanwhile. Strange and wonderful things, perhaps.”
“Do you plan to stay long this time, my lord?” Harry continued, lightly poking his sister’s arm to keep her quiet—no mean feat.
Julien was silent for a moment. He found himself looking at Katharine and felt again the odd sensation that was now, without his conscious wish, spreading deep within him, filling him, making him feel quite odd, but it was a miraculous feeling, one that he didn’t want to lose. She had removed her tight-fitting hat, and clouds of thick, rich auburn hair fell about her shoulders in deep waves nearly to her waist. She was oblivious of him and didn’t look up, being occupied with braiding her hair into long plaits and tucking them under her hat.
The Rebel Bride Page 3