White Regency 03 - White Knight

by Jaclyn Reding

  Christian could only nod before the duke stepped toward him, shattering the moment between mother and son with a thunk of his damnable cane.

  “Did you think I’d have you wed a gorgon?” When Christian didn’t respond, he said, “I’ve arranged for a coach to take you to Westover for the night. The staff has been alerted and is prepared for your arrival. One night, Christian. That was our agreement. By the time you return to London, the announcements will have been made in the papers.”

  Christian simply nodded at the reminder that he had one more task to perform in order to fulfill his part of their bargain. And the sooner he saw to it the better. He turned to Grace, who stood waiting beside him, and offered her his arm. “Shall we depart, my lady?”

  He handed her inside the coach then climbed in to sit opposite her. They waited while the coachman made his way to his seat. Christian watched as Grace waved out the window, calling farewells to her uncle and Eleanor just before they began to pull away. A riot of questions were galloping through his thoughts. Who was she? Where had his grandfather found her? Just how much money did she and her family stand to receive from this alliance?

  It wasn’t until the church had disappeared behind them that Grace turned to face him. She looked uncomfortable, to say the least, alone now with a man who was both stranger and husband. She said in an effort to break the awkward silence between them, “I know what you must be thinking, my lord.”

  “Do you?”

  “The other night at the ball. It isn’t at all what it seems—”

  “No? And just what was your purpose in coming to my dressing room, madam? Did you wish to view the goods before exchanging the vows?”

  “As I told you that night, I was trying to find my uncle.”

  Christian smirked. “And naturally one would think to look first in another man’s dressing room. I promise you, my lady, I’m not in the habit of entertaining gentlemen in my private chambers.”

  “It wasn’t supposed to happen as it did. We were just supposed to share a dance. That’s all. My uncle had arranged it with your sister. You wouldn’t even have known who I was. But I had second thoughts, so when Eleanor went to look for you, I tried to find my uncle so we could leave before you came back with her. Only I got confused in the crowd and somehow ended up in the servants’ passage, which wouldn’t have been any trouble, except that someone locked the door behind me.”

  Christian didn’t want to believe her, even though her explanation sounded plausible. Either that or she had worked very hard at making it up. “You said you had wanted a dance. Pray, why?”

  Grace didn’t immediately answer. Instead she looked out the window a moment or two, her brow drawn close in thought beneath the rim of her straw bonnet.

  “I had been forbidden to meet you,” she said softly. “I thought that perhaps by at least dancing with you, even if you didn’t know who I was, I would somehow be able to reassure myself that I was doing the right thing in becoming your wife. It sounds silly now I know in the face of it all, but at the time, it was all I had.”

  Her eyes shone only with a vulnerable sincerity. She was telling the truth.

  Christian had anticipated so many things in the woman his grandfather would choose for his wife. He had expected she would be inspired to wed him for his title and the Westover wealth, those two qualifications that had made him such a coveted prize on the marriage market. He had even been prepared for someone as ruthless and devious as the duke. But Grace seemed to have none of these qualities. Her honesty and absolute candor startled him. They were things to which he was wholly unaccustomed. They were things the Dukes of Westover had been taught since time immemorial to suspect.

  He looked at her, hiding his thoughts. “You said you changed your mind. About having a dance with me.”

  She nodded.

  “Why?”

  Her reluctance kept her from answering a moment. When she finally did speak, her voice was barely above a whisper. “It was the way they all kept looking at me, like I didn’t belong there.”

  Surely this vulnerability, this innocence could not be real, especially in one hand-picked by his grandfather. How long ago had the duke decided upon her as the chosen bride for the Westover heir? Long enough for her to rehearse every word she would say, every gesture she would make? Perhaps somehow the duke had realized Christian’s own secret plan, one that would foil his grandfather’s final triumph in their lifelong battle of wills. It was a battle Christian could never allow himself to lose; the risk was too great. Even as he found himself intrigued by her, he knew he must never lower his guard, no matter how lovely, no matter how exceptional his new wife might prove to be.

  Chapter Seven

  “We have arrived at Westover, madam.”

  Grace slowly opened her eyes onto a darkened coach interior and the shadowed silhouette of Lord Knighton sitting across from her. She glanced out the side window. The sky outside was dark, starless, the moon a hazy gleam of light behind a thickening fog. Goodness, it was night. How long had she been sleeping?

  “Two hours,” the marquess said as if clearly reading her thoughts. “Since Wexburgh.” He then opened the coach door and alighted, offering his hand to assist Grace down.

  She was confronted on the outside by an immense structure that was part castle, part manor house, even part dungeon, issuing from the twilight shadows like the eerie backdrop of the gothic tales she so enjoyed reading. It was surely the most imposing domicile she’d ever seen—twice the size, if not more, of Ledysthorpe. However, its vastness did not in any way signify comfort. At Ledysthorpe, from the moment they arrived, visitors were embraced by a feeling of unmistakable welcome from the servants who came at once to wave in greeting or the numerous dogs yapping excitedly at their heels. Cast in the gray and mist of dusk, this place only gave an impression of cold, austere foreboding. It seemed almost to warn the visitor away rather than draw them in.

  They stood in a courtyard surrounded on four sides by somber stone walls that frowned sternly down upon them. Two of the walls were cornered by tall ivy-covered towers and, except for the gated archway their coach had entered through, there appeared no other way out. After speaking briefly to the coachman, Lord Knighton started across the graveled drive toward wide front steps set beneath an imposing door surely three times the height of him. Grace followed. As they reached the top of the stairs, the door crept open to reveal a grim-faced, elderly butler.

  “Good evening, my lord.”

  Lord Knighton barely acknowledged the man’s greeting except to say a curt “Ambrose” as he walked past on his way into the main entrance hall.

  He noticed that Grace hadn’t followed. He turned. “My lady?”

  “You aren’t going to carry me across the threshold?”

  He stared at her a moment. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I thought it was a rule that all grooms carried their brides across the threshold.”

  “A rule?”

  Grace nodded. “To neglect to do so could bring dire consequences to the marriage.” Well, that is, consequences more dire than the fact that the bride and groom were utter strangers.

  “I suppose that would be an issue for one who believes in that sort of nonsense.”

  Grace merely looked at him. She didn’t move from the other side of the threshold. “I would hate to be responsible for tempting ill fortune.”

  Christian stared at her. Ambrose, she noticed, stood watching the entire exchange.

  “My lady, unless you think to sleep in the doorway, I suggest you walk yourself through that door.’

  “But I—”

  “Oh, good God, woman, all right!”

  Grace took a startled breath as Christian suddenly swept her up and into his arms. It was the closest she had gotten to him all day and she could smell the clean, male scent of him, sandalwood and something else— something spicier. The sudden sense of being held by him, the warmth of her body against his, was new and oddly comforting and when he broug
ht her inside and set her on her feet, she instantly missed it.

  He, however, seemed wholly unaffected by it.

  “I hope that will set fortune at ease,” Christian said and turned to walk further inside.

  The outside of the building had intimidated her; the inside, however, was utterly overwhelming. Marble Roman statuary were set around the circular chamber in alcoves cut into the granite walls. Rather than being set where they might be better viewed and appreciated, they had been placed at such a height as to give anyone entering the sense of being stared down upon by a crowd of overlords. Thick alabaster columns measured off the perimeter of the room and the Westover ducal coat of arms, carved in stone, was emblazoned above the arched central corridor. As they walked, their footsteps echoed on the marble floor and carried upward to the lofty heights of the ceiling, a ceiling that was buttressed with oaken beams the size of ship’s masts.

  A figure emerged from the shadows at the far end of the hall holding a branch of flickering candles, a housekeeper in dark skirts and a white linen mobcap who surprisingly attempted a small smile as she curtsied. She came to a standstill beside Ambrose’s rigid posture.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Stone,” Christian said.

  The housekeeper bobbed. “Lord Knighton, ‘tis good to see you again.”

  “Allow me to introduce my wife, Lady Knighton, to you both.”

  The butler bowed his head dutifully, murmuring “Madam” while the housekeeper dipped quickly into another curtsey. “Welcome to Westover, my lady.”

  “You will show Lady Knighton to our chambers and assist her with her things. We’ve had a long journey and we will be leaving first thing on the morrow. Anything her ladyship desires, please see to it.”

  The two answered in unison, “Yes, my lord.”

  Grace looked at Christian. “You aren’t coming?”

  “I have some business to attend to. Ambrose and Mrs. Stone are quite capable of directing you, unless there is some other rule that requires bridegrooms to carry their wives over every threshold in the house.”

  Grace shook her head, uncertain as to whether he was mocking her. Instead she wondered at his sudden neglect. Did he mean to leave her alone in this vast cavern of a house for the night—on her wedding night? “I just thought that—”

  But Christian wasn’t listening to her. Instead he turned and began issuing orders to the butler. “Please instruct the cook to have our dinner served in the dining hall. A footman can show Lady Knighton there when she has finished upstairs.”

  Grace stared at Christian, wondering if he would ever shed the mantle of cold, armored indifference he seemed to wear. He had been polite all during their journey, and though not overly interested in conversation, she had figured him tired and had thought they would get further acquainted once they reached their destination.

  Apparently that was not to be.

  But before Grace could voice any agreement or disagreement to these plans, Christian turned and strode toward a side door, the sober echoing of his bootsteps the only sound in the hall. Grace merely stood and watched him go as he closed the door firmly behind him.

  “My lady?” Mrs. Stone said finally.

  Grace looked at her.

  “If you would be so kind as to follow me, I will show you to your chambers.”

  She gave one last look at the door where Christian had disappeared before she simply nodded and followed in the wake of the light from the woman’s flickering candelabrum.

  Mrs. Stone led Grace up a cheerless flight of stairs to an upper corridor, paneled in dark walnut and lined with portraits of Westover ancestors bearing expressions as austere and menacing as the house they inhabited. They glowered at her from their shadowed and gilded perches and once she even imagined she had seen the eyes of one of them, a most severe-looking Tudor fellow in jerkin, hose, and cartwheel ruff, move to follow her progress down the hall.

  She put it off as a play of the candlelight on the walls, but as they continued, Grace found herself glancing at the binding of the novel she’d carried in with her from the carriage to make certain its title still read The Mysteries of Udolpho and not suddenly The Mysteries of Westover Hall. This night certainly had all the trappings of a tale worthy of Mrs. Radcliffe. Complete with the ancient castle and the somber butler who looked as if he himself might be of the netherworld.

  Once they were a fair distance from the entrance hall, Mrs. Stone’s demeanor seemed to ease a bit. Soon she even began to chat. “We hope you will enjoy your stay here at Westover, my lady, even if ‘tis to be for the one night. ‘Twill be your home one day when Lord Knighton becomes the new duke. If there is anything you need, please do not hesitate to ask.”

  The thought of making her home in this solemn place was most unsettling to her and brought her to remembering something Nonny had once said to her. A lady makes her husband’s home her own. Grace wondered if her grandmother could have foreseen the gloom of this chilling place.

  “Thank you.” Grace thought for a moment, then said, “I wonder if you might answer something for me, Mrs. Stone?”

  The housekeeper stopped before a massive oaken door, took up the vast ring of keys that hung at her waist, and fitted one inside the lock. “Of course, my lady. Anything.”

  “Have you been in service here at Westover very long?”

  Mrs. Stone turned the handle and pushed the door wide, stepping back to face Grace on her answer. “Oh, quite some thirty years or more.” She entered the room and began lighting the numerous sconces and candle stands that were set about the room, continuing as she did. “My mother was in service here before me and married my father, who worked in the stables, so I grew up here at Westover. I started as a scullery maid, then became an upper chamber maid, a nursery maid, and worked my way through the ranks to housekeeper these past ten years or more. My own daughter and nieces are maids here now, too.”

  Grace nodded. “Then you have known the Wycliffe family very long?”

  “Oh, indeed, my lady, very long. I was a nursery maid to Lord Knighton when he was a child.”

  Grace tried to imagine Lord Knighton as a boy, playing along these same halls, his laughter echoing throughout the lofty ceilings, but an image just wouldn’t present itself. She returned her attention to the housekeeper. “Since you have been here so long, perhaps you can tell me if this house and this family have always been so filled with the misery they are now.”

  Mrs. Stone stopped immediately and turned to face Grace. Her mouth was fixed, her eyes suddenly clouded.

  “I’m sorry,” Grace said. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “It is all right. You’ve every right to know.” The housekeeper glanced to the door, her voice quieting. “No, my lady. It has not always been thus. Westover used to be a happy place filled with much laughter.”

  “What is it, then, that has brought such sadness to this family?”

  Again Mrs. Stone glanced to the door. “It is only since the death of the previous marquess—your husband’s father—some twenty years ago. Lord Christopher’s passing brought such a terrible sorrow to them all, one that has lingered even now. ‘Twas his lordship’s passing that brought along the rift between the old duke and his lordship, your husband. A terrible rift it is, too, one that has never been breached. And poor Lady Frances. Such a ray of happiness she once was. She has never gotten past losing her husband. It was as if when his lordship died, so did life for everyone else in the family.” She said then, her voice lightening, “But not every Wycliffe has been so touched by it. You’ve met Lady Eleanor?”

  Grace smiled. “Oh, yes, and I like her very much.”

  “Ah, such a sweet child she is, Lady Eleanor, so very different in temperament from the others. She is a true blessing and so dear to your husband the marquess. Without her, I should think his lordship would have—”

  “That will do, Mrs. Stone.”

  The housekeeper turned wide eyes across the room, staring with obvious dismay at the doorway
where Ambrose had suddenly appeared. The butler’s face was fixed most unhappily.

  “His lordship has asked me to inform Lady Knighton that dinner is ready to be served in the dining hall.” He looked to Grace. “Mrs. Stone can see to the further unpacking of your things, my lady.”

  His manner was insolent, yet polite enough to avoid any suggestion of insubordination. From Mrs. Stone’s expression, though, it was easy to see she was terrified of the man, a terror that was obviously rooted in years of experience.

  “Thank you, Ambrose,” Grace said. “You may tell his lordship I will be down shortly.”

  The butler remained at the door. “I am to show you to the dining hall now, my lady.” His eyes settled on her. “His lordship requests it.”

  While she would have preferred having Mrs. Stone direct her belowstairs, Grace didn’t wish to be the cause of any unneeded trouble for the housekeeper. Thus she decided to go with the stoic Ambrose, although she wasn’t much pleased about it. She didn’t like him, not at all, and she sensed he didn’t much care for her either.

  “Very well. Mrs. Stone, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I should like to have a bath before going to bed to wash away the dust from our journey.”

  “Indeed, my lady, I will have the bath ready for you when you finish.” Mrs. Stone dipped into a curtsey, smiling despite Ambrose’s sullen frown.

  Grace walked in silence behind the butler along the darkened corridors she had just come through. The only light came from the single candlestick Ambrose carried before him. In his company, the house had grown even gloomier than before, like a lowering stormcloud on an already overcast day. He said nothing to her except to give a warning to her to watch her step once as they turned. Even then he seemed to have spoken more out of custom than any concern for her. When they reached the stairs to descend to the lower floor, Grace finally spoke out.

  “Ambrose, a moment if you will.”

  He stopped, turning to regard her.

  “I hope you will not fault Mrs. Stone for my curiosity earlier. It was I who initiated the conversation you overheard, not she.”