“No more tight than your breeches, madam.”
He should have guessed that he wouldn’t be able to discomfit her. Indeed, she replied in a confiding tone, “Quite right of you to notice. You see, I have had to wear this pair for the past two years, Harry’s breeches being now too large for me. They are, I assure you, a bit confining.”
She turned toward the water, shaded her eyes with her hand for a moment, searching intently, and then brought her gaze back to Julien’s face.
“It’s a pity you gave me such a start. You see,” she explained, “it took me quite two weeks to whittle that pole so that it was just right. Harry thinks himself far too grown-up and wouldn’t help me. Now it is gone. Well, I can only hope that you’re satisfied.”
There was nothing else outrageous that she could say. Julien shook his head. “Miss Brandon, you will, of course, allow me to make reparations. In fact, my friend over there”—he turned and waved to Hugh to come to them—“has equipped himself with several very finely whittled fishing poles. It is likely he can be convinced to part with one of them.”
“Why, that is quite handsome of you.” Those damned dimples of hers were clearly evident. He wanted to trace them with his fingertips. He contented himself with saying, “What an unaccountable girl you are, Miss Brandon. You must be quite a trial to your family.”
It was a jest, only a simple jest, but at his words she seemed to freeze. She looked away from him, and he saw her lips draw into a tight line.
What the devil had he said that upset her? He stretched his hand out in an unconscious gesture. “Miss Brandon, I did not mean to—”
He didn’t finish, which was probably just as well, for he had no idea of what he would have said. Hugh approached and stood beside him, gazing in some surprise at the breeched boy.
He raised an eyebrow at Julien.
5
With an effort, Julien turned to Hugh and said, “Hugh, I would like you to meet Miss Katharine Brandon. Her family lives somewhat west of St. Clair.”
She stretched out her hand to Hugh, who, for want of something better, extended his own hand and clasped her slender, albeit dirty, fingers.
Her green eyes twinkled, for she realized full well what he was thinking. Julien was relieved to see that whatever had made her unhappy was for the moment forgotten.
She gave Hugh a winsome smile and said simply, “Do forgive me, sir. I fear that curtsying in breeches is quite beyond my abilities.”
Calling on the great aplomb and polish that he’d acquired over the years, Hugh said easily, “Do not disturb yourself, Miss Brandon. I quite understand. Though I have, myself, never endeavored to curtsy in breeches, I do think it would be an awkward and unpleasing sight.”
Julien said now, “All that, Hugh? Good God, that speech much have taken at least four breaths. Now, unfortunately, I startled Miss Brandon, and she dropped her fishing pole in the lake. I’ve handsomely offered one of yours if one of them suits her. She’s quite a stickler, you know. I doubt she’ll accept just any offering. She tells me she’s quite the angler.”
Hugh, a gentleman to the tips of his well-manicured nails, said quickly, “It would be my pleasure, Miss Brandon. Please make your selection. I have but three poles with me, but I have been assured by Julien that they are of the finest quality.”
Kate glanced at Julien with a gleam of amusement before bending over the three poles laid out by Hugh. After careful inspection, she rose, quite enthusiastic over her choice.
“How very fine it is, and such balance. Now I shall be able to pull in every trout that takes the veriest nibble, that is, if his lordship here doesn’t kick me out.”
Julien gave a shout of laughter. “Be my guest, Miss Brandon, be my guest. I’ll do no kicking. Consider the meager contents of my lake at your disposal.”
She joined wholeheartedly in his laughter. “How very noble of you, my lord earl.”
Even before Mannering handed him the London Times on a silver tray, Julien’s nostrils quivered at the unmistakable scent of Lady Sarah’s exotic perfume. It usually amused him that he could smell her heavy musk scent at a soiree before actually seeing her, but today he found himself a bit put out. Even the letter from his mother, who found perfume an irritant to her nerves, was tinged with the cloying scent. He remembered the attar of roses he’d given her once, but she hadn’t liked it, claiming it was too discreet a perfume. He had rather thought discreet was the point of the business.
Julien tossed the letters on an elegant French writing table and stopped Mannering as he turned to go. “Mannering, do stay a moment.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“I find myself abominably ignorant about some of our local gentry. The Brandons, to be exact. The name is, of course, familiar to me, and I have but recently met for the first time the Brandon offspring. Quite a charming pair, incidentally. What can you tell me of the family?”
Mannering’s eyes lit up for a brief instant, and his thin lips curved into a smile. “Ah, yes, Miss Katharine. A most delightful young lady, if you will pardon my saying so, my lord. And, of course, Master Harry, too.”
Julien was intrigued by his normally staid butler’s praise of any person not directly connected with the St. Clair family or household.
“But who are they?”
Mannering, who prided himself on his intimate knowledge of every noble family within two days’ ride of St. Clair, cleared his throat ceremoniously. “Sir Oliver Brandon, Miss Katharine’s father, is a baronet who is considered quite an outsider here, having arrived only in the last thirty years. His family lives, I believe, in the Lake District, near Widemere. His lordship’s late wife, Lady Sabrina, was the only daughter of the McCelland laird, a most powerful lord whose grandfather fought for Prince Charlie in ’45. Unfortunately, my lord, I am unable to recount how the Lady Sabrina met Sir Oliver.
“Notwithstanding, my lord, I have been given to understand that the McCelland laird forbade the marriage, and the Lady Sabrina and Sir Oliver actually eloped.” Mannering’s nostrils flared at the very mention of such an action. “Sir Oliver also was cast out by his family, his father, as I understand, being none too fond of Scots.”
“You mean, Mannering, that the McCelland laird considered the Brandons beneath his touch?”
“Quite beneath, my lord. As you know, their union produced Miss Katharine and Master Harry. Lady Sabrina was never a strong lady, it was said. She died some six years ago, from an inflammation of the lung, most say.”
“Most say, Mannering?”
“Well, if you will forgive my saying so, my lord, it is my opinion that Lady Sabrina died of misery, pure and simple misery.” Mannering quickly added, “Sir Oliver isn’t a very generous or compassionate man, my lord, and Lady Sabrina’s years with him were not contented ones. How she came to elope with him eludes everyone’s reason.”
Mannering’s story of Lady Sabrina brought to Julien’s mind Kate’s unhappy look when he had mentioned her family. But he merely nodded and said, “Then why haven’t I met the Brandons? If they have been here thirty years, well, I have been here nearly twenty-eight years myself.”
A sense of foreboding descended over Mannering as his master fixed him with a hard stare, reminding him forcibly of the late earl. The young earl had drawn him out about the Brandons, and he had already said far too much to avoid answering this question. He had been silent for so many years, in keeping with the late earl’s wishes, that he found himself quite at a loss as how best to proceed.
He gave his characteristic cough and began with painstaking slowness. “As your lordship knows, the two Brandon children were too young for your notice when you lived at St. Clair. Master Harry was barely out of short coats when you left for Eton.” Mannering paused, hoping for a reprieve, but the earl gave him the eye and said impatiently, “Yes, yes, I know all that, Mannering. Get to the point, man.”
“Yes, my lord. You see, my lord, your late esteemed, very upright father did not deal well with the Bran
dons—rather, with Sir Oliver. It seems that your lordship’s grandfather was regarded by the Brandons as being of questionable reputation where females were concerned.”
Julien laughed. “A rake and licentious womanizer is what you mean, is it not, Mannering, until he dropped dead of overindulgence at sixty?”
Mannering fixed Julien with an offended stare, the like of which Julien hadn’t seen since he was a boy.
“One hesitates to speak ill of the dead, my lord, particularly when the person is one’s late master and an earl of March.”
“I stand corrected, Mannering.” He had to remember that he wasn’t in London, where such colorful curses about persons living or deceased were mundane and expected. “Please continue, Mannering. You say my father and mother had a falling-out with Sir Oliver over Grandfather’s questionable reputation?”
“If I may venture to say so, my lord, Sir Oliver Brandon is a staunch Methodist and overly rigid in his moral views. It seems that Lady Sabrina’s personal maid was found to be in the family way. The girl swore it was your grandfather, the earl, though it hardly seems likely, as your grandfather had quite a number of years already on his plate. Sir Oliver, so I was informed, beat the girl soundly, cast her out, and never again spoke to your grandfather. As you know, my lord, your own father was a very proud man, as is, of course, proper. Although his late lordship did not always agree with your grandfather’s conduct, he thought it disgraceful that a mere baronet should dare to condemn an earl of March, much less cut the acquaintance.”
“The light dawns brightly, Mannering.” Julien could picture without much difficulty how his father and mother would react to such an impertinence. It took him but a moment to shrug off his irritation at not being told all this, as he realized that Mannering would in all likelihood be able to tell him more about Katharine.
“As you know, Mannering, Miss Brandon is a somewhat unusual young lady. The two times I have met her, she was dressed in breeches, quite like a boy. As a matter of fact, she is forthright in her manners and speech, very unlike the daughter of a rigid Methodist.”
“Perhaps I have acted precipitately, my lord, but I pray you will not believe that to be true. During the past several years, your lordship being rarely here, Mrs. Cradshaw and I have become well acquainted with the young lady and have let her spend much time here. Mrs. Cradshaw and I have a liking for Miss Kate. As you can imagine, my lord, a young lady of her high spirits is sadly out of place in Sir Oliver’s household, particularly since the death of Lady Sabrina, her mother. She is certainly not an encroaching young lady, my lord. It is just that she is much alone. She, er, needs friends other than her brother, who now isn’t often here. Also, I would say she needs friends closer to her own age than Emma and I.”
“You are quite certain she’s not an ‘encroaching’ young lady, Mannering?”
“Quite true, my lord.”
To Mannering’s relief, his master gave a little chuckle and placed his hand on his shoulder. “You have acted quite right in this matter. I only regret that my presence here prevents Miss Katharine from fully enjoying herself on St. Clair land, though she was quite at home pulling one trout after another out of the lake.”
Julien dropped his hand and turned his view toward the large French windows that gave a brilliant view of the front lawn. He said under his breath, “As you say, she is in need of friends, perhaps friends closer to her age.”
“I beg your pardon, my lord?” Mannering asked, thinking his master’s low-spoken words meant for him.
“It’s nothing, Mannering. Don’t mind me. I become as meandering as a lake in my talk. Thank you for telling me about the Brandons.”
Left alone, Julien again gazed out into the peaceful summer scene. So Kate had made friends with his staff, had she? Quite a feat, he thought, considering Mannering’s strict adherence to propriety. A lady in breeches. A lady with the sunniest smile he’d ever seen in his life. A lady who could charm a snake right out of its skin. She was a lady, in short, who was fascinating. He realized he was smiling, not a lazy, mocking smile as was his habit, but a tender smile. It scared him witless, but just for a moment. Then he grinned at himself. “I must be becoming a half-wit,” he said aloud to the empty room. “Taken with an impertinent, outrageous—”
He turned and walked slowly back to the center of the room. He wondered if Kate had ever been in his father’s library. He could picture her pouring tea dressed in a gown of, perhaps, green velvet, her beautiful thick auburn hair piled high on her head. Unaccountably, he found this picture of domesticity not at all alarming or repugnant. Indeed, he was loath to let it slip from his mind. He shook his head, bemused at himself. He very much wanted to see Katharine Brandon again.
The next several days passed pleasantly enough for Julien, though he and Hugh did not come upon Katharine Brandon on their outings. For the most part, he and Hugh rode, hunted, and fished together. Percy seemed quite content with this arrangement, planning the evening’s menus with François each morning, perusing the London papers, and napping in the afternoons.
Had Hugh told Julien that he wasn’t particularly good company, Julien would have been frankly surprised. He was an excellent host; he was known for being an excellent host. But Hugh, long accustomed to Julien’s quickness of wit and good-humored cynicism, found it quite odd that his friend seemed distracted, his responses vague and not at all to the point. He regarded Julien covertly on several occasions and speculated on the cause of his preoccupation. Finding no likely answers, he concluded that since Julien seemed not to wish to speak of what was bothering him, his as well as Percy’s presence at St. Clair was not at all what Julien needed.
And so it was Hugh who announced at dinner one evening that he really must return to London. He bent a stern eye on Percy and began to enumerate various reasons why Percy, also, should accompany him.
“After all, my dear fellow,” he said to Percy, over his goblet of claret, “we have enjoyed Julien’s hospitality for quite long enough. And you, Percy, have a horse running at Newmarket next week. Since I have wagered on your horse to win, I feel it only right of you to return with me and see to his training.” He absolved himself of this harmless lie, for his motives were, after all, only the purest.
Percy, who had a bite of creamed artichoke heart in his mouth at that moment, paused in his chewing and said with all the candor of a friend who knows that anything at all can and will be forgiven, “Don’t take me for a damned idiot, Hugh. You know very well that Julien wishes us miles from here. Your paltry reasons have nothing to do with my bloody horse, whose name, I suspect, you can’t even remember.” He turned his light-blue eyes on his host and added with a shrug, “Although I can’t imagine why.”
“Why what?” Hugh asked. “What the devil are you talking about, Percy?”
“I can’t imagine why Julien doesn’t want us here. You’re right, Hugh. He does indeed wish us to Jericho. He pays us attention, but he isn’t really here, if you know what I mean.”
“Hold, both of you,” Julien said, looking from the one to the other. “I assure you that nothing could be further from the truth. As for Percy’s horse, Hugh—why, the nag hasn’t a chance of winning. There’s no reason why either of you should think of leaving so soon.”
Julien would have said more, but he suddenly became aware that Percy was merely staring at him with disbelief. As for Hugh, he became preoccupied with the dissection of a leg of broiled chicken.
“Must be a woman,” Percy announced. “Yes, no other reason for all this wretched excess of excuses on both your parts.”
Julien felt a dull-red flush creep over his face. He had to smile, for Percy was exceedingly acute.
Percy took another bite of the creamed artichokes and pondered the problem. Upon swallowing, he said, cordial as a mother who’d just received a wonderful offer for her homely daughter, “Can’t imagine where you met a woman in such an outlandish place, but no doubt you did. You were always a dog with women, St. Clair. Not o
ne of them, if she’s toothsome enough, can escape your eye for very long. Just fancy, a woman here who has quite besotted you.”
Oblivious of Julien’s heightened color and a puzzled look from Hugh, he concluded imperturbably, “Do hope that Riverton has taken the fair Yvette off your hands, old boy. Ah, and poor Lady Sarah, all low in the brow because you’ve not shown her enough affection. What is the chit’s name, Julien?”
“Really, Percy,” Hugh said, seeing Julien’s appalled discomfort. “You go too far. How Julien wishes to conduct himself on his own lands is certainly none of your concern, or mine. We’re off to London tomorrow. And keep your mouth closed and chewing on those bloody artichokes.”
Percy once more bent his gaze on Julien’s face and said a trifle glumly, “Must be serious, Hugh. Never have I seen him make such a cake of himself over his mistresses. Good Lord, he’s been miles away from us for the past three days. He didn’t even blink an eyelash when he lost twenty pounds to you in cards last night. Yes, it’s a damned woman, and he’s ready to have her in his bed.”
Julien found himself at a loss for words, a condition he was becoming rapidly used to. Lord, had he been so obvious? He quickly picked up his glass of claret and downed it in one gulp. He met Hugh’s eyes over the rim of the glass and saw the light of comprehension spread over his serious face. Only Hugh had met Katharine.
At that moment, Hugh seriously questioned the powers of his own intellect, which he had always considered more than tolerable. He felt somehow that his ability to comprehend his fellow humans had grossly betrayed him. Good God, Percy was right and he hadn’t even known, blast his heathen’s eyes. A woman—Katharine Brandon to be exact, that winsome, smiling, utterly outrageous girl—had somehow turned Julien’s head? He could not believe he had been so blind. He consoled himself with the fact that in his long acquaintance with Julien he had never seen him treat any of the endless bevy of charming girls making their come-outs with anything but polite indifference. Why, it was not long ago that he had confided to Hugh that he found the chatter of young females quite beyond his limits of endurance. He had always taken his pleasure with older women, who were experienced in the games of flirtation and love, and were, above all, married. Or with his mistresses.
The Rebel Bride Page 5