An Unsuitable Bride

by Jane Feather

  “That will do,” she said. “Have the chest put inside the chaise. It mustn’t be exposed to the weather.”

  Drawing on her gloves, she followed the man who had shouldered the heavy chest. Her spirits were absurdly buoyant, and she caught herself fancying that the square of early sunlight framed in the open front door was a shining path to freedom. Ridiculous, of course, but she had to work to keep her footsteps to the sedate pace appropriate for the librarian as she crossed the hall to the door.

  Maude was standing in a dressing robe at the foot of the stairs. Alexandra curtsied. “Good morning, ma’am.”

  “Sir Stephen and I have decided there’s no need to waste money on a hotel for you,” Maude stated. “A message was sent yesterday to the caretaking staff at Douglas House to expect you. I daresay you’ll do well enough there. The house has been standing empty for a year, but we intend to open it properly this November for the Season.”

  This was the first Alexandra had heard of the change of plan, and her heart lurched. What if the caretaking staff at the London house were part of her father’s establishment? All of the senior retainers from her childhood at Combe Abbey had left their employment on her father’s death, provided with small pensions in Sir Arthur’s will, so she had been in no danger of recognition here, but she didn’t know about the London house. All of the old servants in Berkeley Square knew her . . . had known her, she reminded herself sharply. She had been fifteen when she had last seen any of them, and in her present guise, she bore no resemblance to that exuberant young girl. No, of course they wouldn’t recognize her.

  She curtsied again, murmured something, and made her escape into the pale, cool sunlight, where her high spirits received another dousing of cold water. She had tried to forget her escort, but there was Peregrine Sullivan, atop a big gray gelding, doffing his hat and smiling at her with that warmth that made her stomach plunge.

  Peregrine swung down, bowing as she came down the short flight of steps to the gravel sweep. “Mistress Hathaway, your escort reporting for duty, ma’am.”

  She gave him a brief nod and a murmured “Good morning, sir,” before busying herself with seeing to the disposal of the tea chest against the farthest door of the chaise. Then she turned to Sir Stephen. “All is in order, Sir Stephen. I will send word from London as soon as I discover how much interest there is in the collection.”

  “Yes, do that . . . do that. But don’t be gone more than a week, mind. I have need of you here, too, you know. Business matters won’t just take care of themselves.”

  She inclined her head. “No, indeed, sir. I will make all haste to conclude the business.” Peregrine was holding the door of the chaise for her, and she stepped up inside, settling on the worn leather squabs. It was not the most commodious of vehicles and by no means in the first flush of youth, but she guessed it had been the cheapest the Red Fox in Dorchester had available.

  “Are you comfortable, ma’am?” Peregrine’s head was in the doorway.

  “Quite, thank you,” she returned stiffly, and turned her head to look out of the other window. If she tried hard enough, at least she could avoid eye contact for the part of this journey that they must perforce spend together.

  So, that is how it is to be. Peregrine pursed his lips and closed the door, the coachman’s whip cracked, and the carriage moved away from Combe Abbey.

  Only then did Alexandra lean back against the squabs and breathe deeply. She was free . . . not for long but long enough to refocus, recover her strength of mind, and return to the fray with all the purpose and determination of before.

  Except that before she could truly relax into this freedom, she had to dispense with the Honorable Peregrine Sullivan. She could do nothing about what he knew of herself at this point, but as long as he didn’t take up permanent residence in the Dower House, she thought she could continue with her plan without fear of discovery. But under no circumstances could he know of Sylvia’s existence. Sylvia must not be associated with her sister’s deception, must not in any way be touched by the fraud that could bring her sister to the gallows. So, sooner rather than later on this journey, she would have to dispense with her escort. She could hear him whistling as if he had not a care in the world as he rode beside the carriage, and she found the sound supremely irritating. She couldn’t remember when she’d last felt like whistling herself.

  It was about twenty miles to Christchurch, Alexandra calculated, where they would have to change horses. They should reach there in about three hours. They would presumably break to refresh themselves while the horses were being changed, and she would tell Peregrine then that she was not continuing to London. He could have no justification for continuing with his escort unless he wanted to make mischief. He had offered to help her; if she explained that this was the only way he could do that, then he would surely continue on the road to London, and she would be free to enjoy Sylvia’s company for tonight and tomorrow.

  She would instruct the coachman to take the coastal detour that would bring them to the little hamlet of Barton just a few miles along the coast from Lymington. She had sufficient funds of her own to pay the coachman for such a short delay, and he and his horses could put up at the Angel Inn in Lymington. A different chaise and coachman would return her to Combe Abbey from London, so there was no possible reason for Cousin Stephen to hear of the detour, and if he heard of her delayed arrival in Berkeley Square, there were any number of travelers’ tales she could use to explain it.

  It should all work beautifully. So, why did she have this nagging doubt?

  Peregrine continued whistling cheerfully as he rode beside the carriage. This offer to escort Alexandra had been pure impulse, a way to spend time alone with her in a noncompromising situation. He was hoping she would take him into her confidence in private, away from prying eyes. Of course, her present rather frigid attitude made that hope seem optimistic, but he had not expected it to be easy.

  She would resist, and he would push back. He would not betray her, and she had to know that now. Eventually, she would come to trust him fully if he persisted. She was by no means indifferent to him; even though she had run from him in the end, her response to him on the cliff top had made that clear enough. He had not mistaken the deep sensual glow in her eyes, the soft yearning of her body as she’d leaned into him.

  A smile quirked his mouth as he thought how much he wanted to see the moonlight in her gray eyes once more, the straight and slender body, the true and vulnerable self revealed beneath the disfiguring marks on her smooth complexion. And most of all, he wanted to hear her talk, see her smile, her true smile, enjoy fencing with that rapier wit.

  He moved Sam closer to the chaise. Leaning down, he used his crop to push aside the leather curtain that closed the window aperture. “Is all well in there?”

  Alexandra jumped, startled from her musing. She looked at Peregrine, who was smiling that inviting smile. Resistance was easier with rudeness. “It was,” she said pointedly. “Now ’tis drafty with the window open.”

  An eyebrow lifted. “My apologies, ma’am. I wished only to ensure you were comfortable and needed nothing. We could stop for a short while any time you wish.”

  “I have no need and no wish to stop before we reach Christchurch.” She leaned back against the squabs and closed her eyes, hoping it was enough.

  Peregrine let the curtain fall. He would have settled for a polite response to his solicitous inquiry, but he’d never been averse to a challenge.

  Alexandra kept her eyes studiously closed in case her escort took it into his head to peek in at her again. The less they spoke, the safer she would feel. Soon they would reach Christchurch, and she would send him on his way.

  The Norman tower of Christchurch Priory dominated the skyline as they approached the town. Alexandra sat up, moving aside the leather curtain on the far side of the chaise, away from Peregrine, and looked out at Christchurch Harbor protected by the cliff at Hengistbury Head. The chaise turned up the High Street from
the harbor and drew up in the yard of the George Inn. The George was the only coaching inn in town, and ostlers ran from the stables to remove the horses from their traces.

  Peregrine dismounted and opened the door, asking politely, “Will you step into the inn, ma’am? You’ll welcome some refreshment, I daresay.”

  “Thank you.” She ignored his proffered hand and stepped down onto the cobbles. She approached the coachman, who was talking with one of the ostlers. “How long to make the change?”

  “Ten minutes, ma’am. We’ll leave when you’re ready.”

  “Fifteen minutes will suffice.” She gave him a nod and crossed the yard to the inn door, where the landlord stood attentively. His expression was somewhat dour as he realized that this drab passenger was unlikely to request a private parlor or any of his more expensive amenities.

  “Ma’am. Welcome to the George.”

  “Thank you. I’ll take coffee in the taproom.”

  The man bowed his acknowledgment and then bowed rather more deeply to the gentleman who was following the lady. His blue wool coat was that of a gentleman of fashion, even if it was rather plain, and he carried himself with all the natural authority that the landlord considered necessary to a gentleman of Quality. He rubbed his hands again, saying with an obsequious smile, “Sir, I’ve a fine strong ale, a local brew, if you’d care to try it.”

  Perry nodded, stripping off his gloves. “Yes, bring it with the coffee. We’ll find a quiet corner in the taproom.” He placed a proprietorial hand under Alexandra’s elbow and eased her into the dim hallway.

  She would have resisted the hand if they were not being observed by the landlord and a bobbing maidservant, who stood at the door to the taproom. She walked into the room, which smelled of ale and wood smoke from the fire in the hearth.

  “Over there, I think. ’Tis secluded.” Peregrine steered her to a settle in a shadowy corner by the fire. “May I take your cloak?”

  “No, thank you,” she said stiffly, sitting down. “I’m not staying very long.”

  “Maybe not, but that’s no reason to sit swaddled in that hideous garment.” He sat on the settle opposite her, laying his whip and gloves on the table between them.

  Alexandra ignored this. “Mr. Sullivan,” she began, “this is where we part company.”

  “Oh? How so?” He looked only mildly interested in the statement, leaning back as the maidservant set a pot of coffee and a foaming tankard on the table. He picked up the tankard and drank deeply.

  Alex poured coffee and marshaled her forces. “As it happens, I am not traveling immediately to London. So you will wish to continue your journey, while I continue mine in a different direction.”

  His eyes sharpened. “What different direction?”

  “That, sir, is none of your business.” She sipped her coffee.

  He sighed. “No, I’m sure that’s true. However, I seem to have made you my business. So, where are we going if not to London?”

  “I am going my own way.” She began to feel like Sisyphus pushing his boulder up the mountainside. “You are going yours.”

  Peregrine stroked his chin, regarding her thoughtfully. “Well, there’s a certain difficulty there. You see, I agreed to watch over Sir Stephen’s precious books and see them safely delivered to Douglas House. So, wherever you’re going, I’m afraid you’ll have to accept my escort.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “You have no obligation to Sir Stephen at all. Believe me, I will take very good care of the books.” She set down her cup with an air of finality. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be on my way.” She got up from the settle and marched out of the taproom.

  Peregrine drained his tankard, put a coin on the table, and followed her out. The chaise was still in the yard, fresh horses in the traces, and the coachman and postilion were finishing their own ale tankards. There was no sign of Alexandra.

  He went up to Sam, who had been watered and rubbed down, and stroked his neck. The horse had another five or six hours left in him if they took it easily. After a few minutes, Alexandra appeared in the yard again, coming from the direction of the outhouse at the rear of the inn. He went to open the chaise door for her.

  “So, where to, ma’am?”

  She looked at him in frustration. “Why? Why are you insisting on this? My plans have nothing to do with you. You have your own life to get back to in London. Why can’t you accept that?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps because you interest me beyond reason. Perhaps because I think you are in trouble, and I don’t seem able to stand aside if I can help in any way.” He looked at her closely. “Are you intending to steal the books in the chaise?”

  “Oh, that’s just insulting,” she responded. “Why on earth would I do that?”

  “Because they’re valuable?”

  “I am not a thief.”

  “No, I didn’t think so. So, what are you?”

  She didn’t answer him, merely turned on her heel and approached the coachman. “I’m taking a detour. Take the coastal road to Lymington, if you please.”

  “Lymington, ma’am?” He looked astonished, glancing at Peregrine for confirmation.

  “Do as the lady says,” Peregrine instructed. “Ma’am, will you get in?” He indicated the interior of the chaise.

  For a moment, she stood, nonplussed. Very rarely had Alexandra experienced this sense of total helplessness. Short of putting a bullet in him, she could not compel him to leave her alone, and she couldn’t outrun him.

  “Come now,” he said softly. “I mean you no harm, Alexandra. But I am coming with you.”

  Maybe she should give in and simply tell the coachman she’d changed her mind and he should continue to London. But now the need to see her sister was all-consuming. She was so close, and there was no knowing when another opportunity would arise. What difference did it make if Peregrine came with her as far as Lymington? She could give him the slip there. They would reach Lymington, she would pretend that was her final destination and take a chamber overnight in the Angel, and at some point in the evening, she would make her escape. She could hire a pony from the inn and ride over to Barton—it was a mere five miles over the heath. Peregrine would never know how to find her.

  Chapter Eight

  It was less than twenty miles to Lymington, but the coastal road was rough, and the chaise could make little more than six miles an hour. Sam picked his way carefully through the ruts in the narrow lanes, and Peregrine allowed his mind to roam. The gray-green waters of the Solent stretched to the green humpbacked-whale shape of the Isle of Wight and the sharp danger of the Needles rocks off St. Catherine’s Point at the entrance to the English Channel. The salt-smelling air was fresh, and it felt good to be alive.

  Every once in a while, he would draw closer to the chaise, but its occupant never showed her face at the window. It must be an uncomfortable ride, he reflected. The chaise was ill sprung and the lanes uneven, but one thing he had gathered about Mistress Alexandra, she had the dedication of a stoic. And the determination of the desperate.

  Alex was thoroughly miserable and thought enviously of her companion enjoying the air on horseback. She would have given anything to ride. After two hours of misery, she knocked on the roof of the chaise, and the coachman drew rein. The door opened quickly, and her escort leaned in.

  “Is something amiss?”

  She ignored the question. She opened her own door and stepped carefully over the tea chest to step out onto the lane on the opposite side of her escort. It was a childish gesture of defiance, she knew, but it gave her some satisfaction. He might force his company upon her, but she didn’t have to acknowledge it.

  “I’ll walk for a while,” she called up to the coachman. “The going’s so slow, anyway, it won’t hold us up.”

  “Right y’are, ma’am.” He touched his forelock and set the team into motion again at a slow amble while she strolled beside the chaise, her stride lengthening as her cramped muscles loosened.

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nbsp; Peregrine dismounted and led Sam around the back of the chaise to the same side. “I don’t blame you,” he remarked cheerfully. “ ’Tis a beautiful day. A little nip in the air, but all the fresher for it.”

  Studiously, she ignored him and increased her pace. He persevered. “The coachman says it should take another two hours at this speed. I gather the Angel is the best coaching inn. I’m looking forward to a good dinner, I must say.”

  Alex was famished herself—it was early afternoon now, and it had been many hours since she had broken her fast before dawn—but she maintained her resolute silence. If he had not forced himself upon her, she would have continued the last few miles to Barton and been there in time for one of Matty’s splendid dinners. Instead, she was going to have to kick her heels at the Angel and waste good money on dinner there, until she could give him the slip.

  “Did you bring other clothes in your portmanteau?” he continued as if he hadn’t noticed her silence. “Surely you don’t intend to show yourself on the streets of London in your present guise.”

  Alexandra bent and picked up a pebble from the lane. She spun away from him and hurled it off the cliff and into the sea. The furious force of her throw almost upset her balance, and he pulled her back as she teetered precariously close to the cliff edge. “Steady, now. Why am I making you so angry?”

  “How could you possibly need to ask such a question?” she snapped, pushing against his chest. “Let go of me.”

  Her cloak was hanging loosely from her shoulders, and his hands were on her waist. Not even the coarse folds of her gown could hide the slimness of her body, the tensile strength as she tried to thrust him away from her. He was aware of that same powerful sensual current that had swept through him on the cliff top and saw in the sudden arrested flash in her gray eyes that she felt it, too. Reluctantly, he decided to take the high road, dropped his hands, and stepped back from her. It was a sacrifice, but it was her trust he wanted, not a surrender that she would bitterly regret.