"Chloe, so good of you to join us," Father said, standing, a small, brown stain marring his pale cravat. Aghast, she stared at him. He had once seemed like an Adonis to her, so gloriously handsome when he smiled. Now, he was a fat fellow, with a bald head and sagging jowls who meal after meal destroyed at least one article of clothing. God, it was no wonder they hurt financially! He soiled three cravats a day.
"So nice of you to wait until I arrived," she retorted, scanning the room for Jude, both saddened and relieved that he wasn't there.
"Sit down before your food gets any colder," Dorothea cooed. Her features were soft and her eyes softer. What was going on? The woman looked like a snake that had recently devoured a fat field mouse.
"Yes Ma’am," she replied. She reached for the chair only to have her father bumble toward her, pulling it out.
"There daughter."
With a wariness that threatened panic, she lowered herself into the chair and watched them. Dorothea, sipping from her soup spoon, Father seating himself and gulping down a mouthful of wine.
She followed suit, hoping the alcohol would calm her nerves. It didn't. It would take more than a glass. Dear God, it would take a barrel to end her misery.
"The baron says you're going to attend the picnic tomorrow," Dorothea remarked, her gaze and tone far too gentle. Chloe imagined she was the field mouse, tight in the serpent's jaw with no hope of escape.
"I wish I could attend," Father interjected, slamming his glass down and lifting up his spoon. Joy of joys, she was going to get to watch him try to eat soup without soiling the tablecloth, his clothes, the floor. She'd rather watch him slurp from the rim of the bowl.
"But I’m off to town to see to some business. There's a buyer interested in that bay stallion."
"You mean Sebastian?" Her heart sank. Sebastian was the most beautiful horse in their stable. He was their breeding stallion. The animal fetched the most when at stud. He was also the sweetest. The horse she rode when hunting. He had been her mother's horse and now hers.
"Aye. The very one."
She shoved away from the table, looking from him to her stepmother. The woman positively beamed with satisfaction. Damn her. Damn him. Damn them all. "You can't mean to sell him. You know how much he means to me. How much he meant to Mother."
Having fully expected him to meet her gaze and come up with some ridiculous excuse, she was shocked when he kept his attention focused on his soup and admitted the truth. "I know. But I've a loan coming due and the old fellow will just about pay for it."
Standing, she held tight to the skirt of her russet gown. "Sell something else! But don't let him go. Father please, I implore you." Hysteria bit at her heart, perspiration immediately springing from her brow as the small gulp of wine pounded on her throat for release. "My lord, please."
Lord Pembridge finally looked upon her, the despair in his eyes great. The sorrow washed heavily across his countenance. "I have no choice, dear daughter. If I did, he'd be the last animal in the stable. But, he has to go or the creditors will start taking our furnishings."
She set her hand to her breast, trying to quell the pain that shrouded her heart. The baron had spoken the truth. Things were far worse than she knew. Far, far worse.
"I see."
His lower lip trembled as tears threatened to fall from his eyes. She could feel the shame sliding out of his pores. "I know you do, and I never wanted you to."
"And now, do you see why it's imperative you seriously consider your options?" Dorothea said, her brow raised, her chin high in an attempt to appear the proud matriarch. It was truly a sad display. The pitiful woman relied on a stepdaughter who loathed her almost as much as she loved Pembridge House.
"So, It's up to me to save us all?"
Father looked away, his silence all the answer she needed.
Her gaze fell upon the pathetic pair, sitting there, trying to be the Lord and Lady of the Manor. How had her proud father allowed this to happen to them…to her? But it wasn't difficult to imagine. She had known for years.
Lady Dorothea loved her father's money. She loved being welcomed by the ton. But most of all, she loved the associations that being a member of the Pembridge family offered to her. She took the greatest joy in telling all who listened that she owned the country house. That she'd owned the London townhouse. That she was every bit the lady that the former Lady Pembridge had been. Sadly for her, it was a truly impossible desire. For her mother garnered respect and attention without ever having to actually demand anything.
Her mother was by far, the softest, sweetest woman to have ever graced the planet. She missed her everyday, but today she ached for her. Needed to be coddled and told everything would be all right. Looking at Dorothea and her father, she knew none of that was forthcoming.
Biting back her worry, she stumbled away from the table. There was no room in her stomach for food, as nerves balled up tight inside her. She longed for fresh air, and needed to put distance between herself and the pathetic fools. A pair who ignored and mistreated her and now demanded the only thing she had left. Her freedom.
"Don't go," Father said finally, but it was a weak request, one with no substance or conviction. His pleading stare and quivering jowls offered no warmth or compassion, only questions. Only need. Only fear as to what she'd say or do. What a delicate web they wove.
"I'm going to the garden." She longed to tell them she wanted to run away from their foolishness. To scream at the top of her lungs that she hated the position they put her in. Wanted to scold herself for allowing them to lock her into marriage with a stranger. And that was what was going to happen. She was going to marry Fredrick. What choice did she have?
Dorothea lifted her glass, her hand trembling. "You must sit down and discuss what you expect from the baron. He has asked for nothing but your hand and the promise of Pembridge House," she looked to Lord Pembridge. "When the unfortunate time comes."
"I have yet to acquiesce to his proposal, but—"
Dorothea rose to her feet and slammed the glass down with such force that red wine sloshed over the rim and marred the white tablecloth. "Your father humbles himself in front of you and you still refuse to comply? Have you no respect, no admiration, no love for the man who gave you life?"
Ire flared from the deepest recesses of her body. How dare the hag speak to her as if she owed either one of them anything? Father had made her life a living hell, hadn't mourned her mother near long enough. Never once had he treated her as a loving father. She was a nuisance, a lowly girl, not a proper heir to Pembridge.
"For a woman who has no one but me to come to for help, you certainly do pretend to have some power. If I marry the baron, it will be because I choose to. Not because Father becomes weepy or you demand it. Lady Dorothea, take care, for aiding you in your search for respect and dignity are not at the top of my agenda. My loves for Pembridge House and for my mother's memory are the only things that have me considering the engagement. Not your bullying."
Dorothea's anger faded, her face sagging as she plopped unceremoniously back into her seat. "So, you're considering it?"
Without meeting her father's gaze and without answering Dorothea, Chloe marched from the room and toward the conservatory. She'd find peace in the garden and with luck, maybe a few answers.
***
The dusky sky and pleasant breeze offered a strange sense of normalcy and calm. Something she needed. She thanked God for the moment of serenity, for maybe, without her mind clamoring, she could actually figure a way out of this mess. A solution that encompassed saving Pembridge House, saving her father's pride, and her sanity. But no, all three couldn't be saved, even if she married the baron. And yes, he seemed a fine man. And yes, he didn't repulse her, the opposite, really. But love him? It was too soon to tell, and with the impending sale of Sebastian…well dash it all, she needed a plan sooner than later.
She stared out into the garden, her paradise, now marred by leaves and disrepair. Everywhere she looked scre
amed for her martyrdom. The ruined house, the sad garden, her beautiful horse.
"Oh Sebastian, what sort of life will you have in the hands of a new master?" she asked of herself and turning walked the wide path that led to the garden gate and just beyond that, the stable. Her heart ached at the idea of saying goodbye to the steed. He had been a constant in her life since Jude left and even though he had returned, she realized that another woman could turn to him. She could not.
Setting her hand to her breast, she realized how lonely he must have felt that day she rebuffed him. Guilt buffeted her, for with her understanding came a shame so deep that her gut burned with sorrow.
With the remnants of the sun at her back, she strolled toward the open stable door. The sweet aroma of hay filled her senses and brought back memories of her last hunt. Oh how free she'd been on Sebastian, how exhilarated at the barking of the dogs, how alive with the wind in her face, the thrill of outracing near everyone. It was a tremendous day, one of the best in recent memory, especially when the fox had gotten away.
"I'll never get away," she lamented, and crossed the threshold into the faded gray stable. At the low murmur of voices, she stopped and scanned the long, dusty aisle.
She couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. The wall lined with tools, the pile of bedding straw, Daisy with her gray head hanging over her stall door, long golden strands of hay dangled from her lips. The poor old girl would surely mourn Sebastian's even more than she would.
"I said I will double the offer. You would say no to that?" Jude's angry voice echoed from the small stable office and down the deserted aisle.
Daisy threw her head back and snorted, startled by the furious outburst. Chloe rushed to her, and pushed for forelock from her eyes. "There, there girl, tis all right," she whispered.
"I won't take charity from the likes of you."
It was her father, his words cutting her to her core. Good Lord, why wouldn't he allow Jude to help? Why was it the only charity he'd accept had to be stolen from her? Perhaps the price of the horse would ease their woes…give her more time to find her escape.
"The likes of me? You're near to losing your ancestral home. Hell man, you know it's worse than that. You're nearing debtor's prison. Tis past time for foolish pride. Take my offer. I want the horse for my wedding day."
The words sliced, severing her heart in half. "My horse." She clenched her jaw, her fingers curling at her sides. He would marry another and have her horse too? There was nothing left for her at Pembridge. Damn them, she may as well marry the baron. At least her financial worries would be over, the house and grounds safe and there would be distance between her and all who would use and neglect her.
"What do you say, my lord?"
There was a long, painful silence, one that had her forcing herself to remain still and quiet when all she wanted to do was race into that room and tell them both to go to hell.
"Well, your having him will ease dear Chloe's mind," her father finally said.
"Compassion…for me?" she mumbled sardonically and leaned against Daisy's stall for support. The old girl nudged her with her muzzle and snorted hot, moist breath at her, impatient for a stroke. Chloe complied, for she too needed the contact.
"So, we have a deal then?" Jude asked, his voice closer, the sound of boots on the hard packed earth growing louder as the pair approached. Her heart skittered. She didn't want to be seen as an eavesdropper, but more than that, she didn't want to face her father. Didn't want to beat him with her fists or cry out. But mostly, she didn't want to tell him how truly disgusted with him she actually was.
Unfastening the lock on the stall door, she slid into the shadows beside Daisy.
"That's a girl," she whispered. The animal so tame she didn't look at her or shift her weight as Chloe took cover. Kneeling between the beast's warm chest and the now closed door, she waited. The sunny scent of hay tickled her nose.
The shadow of their boots fell beneath the stall door and they stopped. She held her breath. Blast! Of all the stalls, why this one?
"Aye, Jude. We have a deal." Her father's voice sounded forlorn, a deep seated sorrow had taken the place of his usual bravado. It should've saddened her. But, it didn't. He had done this. He had allowed Dorothea's excesses. It would've been easy to solely blame the grasping woman, but he was too generous with her and she far too ready to exploit that generosity.
There was an uncomfortable silence and then the unmistakable jingle of coin. "Pay your most pressing debts with this," Jude said, his tone heavy with disapproval. "Don't allow Mother a new tiara or something equally unnecessary."
"It's because I wished to make her happy," Father replied weakly.
"I can tell you, sir that is not something any man has ever been able to do. I count myself in that unfortunate club."
Father grunted. "It's a lesson I have learned in the hardest of ways."
"And unfortunately for Chloe, she's paying the price for your lesson."
"I know, and for that I am sorry."
CHAPTER FIVE
The usually comfortable bed seemed too hard. The pillow was too warm against her cheek. The room so quiet, the silence had her ears aching. But worst of all was her mind. Thoughts flew through on unhindered wings. Round and round they went, never finding a reprieve, save one. Marry the baron.
Rolling on her side, she gave the downy pillow a hard punch before tossing it across the room. It landed on the worn floorboards with a soft thud. Worn floorboards, just one more missed indication of her family's poverty. Of her poverty.
Rising from the bed, she fetched the pillow and held it to her breast as she paced back and forth. Three hours till sunrise and she hadn't slept a moment. It was torture, her entire existence, torture. No escape offered, not even on the gossamer wings of sleep.
Again she tossed the pillow, this time toward the bed. It landed on the edge and hung for a moment before sliding to the floor. She let out a frustrated cry, for she too hung precariously on the edge and with just the slightest touch, she'd fall not to the ground but into a deep, dark abyss.
Settling into her slippers, she rushed from her room and into the stuffy hallway. All the bedroom doors were closed. Everyone slept. Dorothea no doubt dreamt of throwing sacks of puppies into raging rivers, Jude, of his beloved fiancée and Father of a juicy pork chop. All three so selfish they didn't realize the torment their action or inaction caused her.
Maybe she should pack a satchel, jump on Sebastian and flee as far as the animal could carry her. The idea held a definite charm and yet she knew she wouldn't do it. Not only did she realize that Pembridge House was too much for her to lose, but the guilt of deserting her father, no matter how justified, was something she could never forgive herself for. Her father and stepmother had her stuck in the stickiest of webs.
She marched down the hall and found herself in the conservatory, standing before the garden doors. The garden used to be her personal Eden, now ruined by Fredrick.
Even the garden, as lovely as it is, is in need of weeding.
"You couldn't sleep, either?"
Jude. The sound of his voice washed over her and the ache it caused had her fighting back a sob. She slowly turned from the window to face him. He sat in a button back chair not three feet from her. The moon reflected off his spectacles, his broad body cast in a heavenly blue glow. Her gaze traveled the length of him, he looked like a marble statue, perfectly beautiful and perfectly cold.
"No. I have rather a lot on my mind." She considered telling him that she knew of his arrangement with her father. That she was only too aware that he now owned Sebastian. But how could she speak of it when she'd hidden in the stall like a castaway aboard a ship?
"As do I."
His tone spoke more then his words. He was obviously fatigued but what did he have to worry over? He had been strong enough to walk away and strong enough to resolve his own problems. He didn't need anyone's help. Oh to be a man and enjoy that freedom. Never in her life had she cursed
her sex more than she had these past few days.
"I would think you were the happiest of men." Her ire pressed hard against her heart. She wanted to shriek at him like a harridan and yet she stood there, hoping he couldn't feel the anger she cast through her bitter gaze.
"And why do you think that?"
"Oh, I don't know?" she said, shuffling toward the piano forte and pulling out the small, claw footed stool. "I suppose it's because your life is moving on at a pleasant pace." She sat down and waited for him to respond. He didn't, so she continued. "And, are you not meeting with your lady love tomorrow for our picnic?"
In the dim moonlight, he stood and moved with an elegant ease over the marble floor. Turning his head, he looked at her, only stopping when he came to the garden doors. "Yes, indeed. My fiancée will be coming in for the day from London."
My, but she loathed the way the word fiancée had been bandied about of late. It was becoming an irritant, much like a splinter in her eye. "You have yet to tell me her name. What is she like? How did you meet?"
"Are you truly interested in all that?" He pushed open the door. "Or are you simply trying to be polite and act interested?"
The bitterness in his words had her reeling. What had she done to deserve the derision he had constantly offered since his return? The only gentleness he had shown was the loving caress to her cheek upon first arriving at Pembridge.
Letters and letters had been written since she hurt him. Did her unintentional dismissal merit his current anger? And the letters. They were letters so sweetly written and filled with news that she found herself longing for more when he signed off. Found she ached with a desire to be with him. Could he be kind only on parchment?
"Are you never going to forgive me?" she asked without thinking. For had she thought about it, she surely would've kept her mouth shut. She had opened herself up to ridicule and she damned herself for it.
"Forgive you for what?" The gruffness was gone from his voice and she wished she could see his face more clearly. His eyes always told her how he felt, regardless of the words he spoke.
An Unwilling Baroness Page 4