Midnight Bride

by Marlene Suson

  Damn her, Jerome thought as he felt his body’s response. Those big, violet eyes of hers were watching him as though she wanted to devour him. There was only so much provocation a man could take, even one with his iron discipline.

  His wet, tight leather riding breeches seemed to be shrinking by the second while a part of his anatomy they covered was swelling. He hastily stepped around Lightning so that the big chestnut’s body would conceal his arousal. Jerome could not believe that the chit had reduced him to such a state.

  Nor could he believe that she had been so quick to react to the dire plight of two men she believed were grooms and to sacrifice her petticoats to help them. Yet the proof of her action lay in the wet, dirty heap of cloth beside her and in the way the voluminous skirt of her violet riding habit was no longer puffed out as it had been. Instead, it clung to her tantalizing hips and thighs in a way that sent a new bolt of desire coursing through him. Morgan had understated the truth when he had said Lady Rachel was gorgeous.

  “So you are the Duke of Westleigh’s grooms,” the pouty-faced Fanny said. “Neither your manners nor your dress do him any credit, Why are you not in his livery?”

  Jerome turned on her, welcoming the opportunity to vent some of his aching frustration. “In this muck?” he inquired scornfully. “Why ruin good livery? It would not have been recognizable by the time we got to Wingate Hall.”

  “You will address me with respect,” Fanny cried indignantly. “I will have you know I am Miss Stoddard, Lord Stoddard’s daughter and the Earl of Arlington’s betrothed.”

  “No wonder the earl vanished,” Jerome retorted. “If I were betrothed to you, I would, too.”

  “You... you...” Fanny sputtered. She was so angry that it was a full minute before she could get out a coherent sentence. “I forbid you ever to speak to me again!” She paused, then inquired with slow, precise enunciation as though he were a half-wit who could not understand if she spoke at a normal pace, “Do... you... understand?”

  Jerome knew Fanny’s kind all too well. If she had known who he really was, she would have been fawning over him in a disgusting manner. He raked her with a look of withering contempt, then turned to Arlington’s sister.

  “Lady Rachel, please tell Miss Stoddard I am delighted to give her my oath never to address her again.”

  “You obnoxious lout,” Fanny screeched. “I shall see that the Duke of Westleigh sacks you immediately.”

  Jerome could not help grinning at that. “Lady Rachel, tell Miss Stoddard that she may try, but she is in for a surprise.”

  “I pray it will be she who is surprised and not you,” Rachel said softly, her expression troubled.

  He was startled by her clear concern for a humble groom. “Why would you care?”

  “You deserve better after the brave way you risked your life to save your companion.” Lady Rachel’s voice was as sweet as warm honey, enveloping him in sensual pleasure that brought instant response from his beleaguered body.

  Then she smiled at him, her eyes glowing with approval, and two marvellous dimples appeared at the corners of her delectable mouth. It took Jerome’s breath away. She was the most sublime creature he had ever seen. Hellsfire, if she did not stop smiling at him like that, he was going to have to dive back into the damned river.

  Flinging himself on Lightning, he hastily draped his leather vest across the saddle to hide the embarrassingly obvious effect she was having on him.

  Ferris had gone to retrieve Thunder. The colt was placidly nibbling on the grass halfway up the slope from the bridge, and Jerome nudged his mount forward to join him.

  After Ferris remounted, the two men cantered in silence for a minute. Then the groom remarked, “You were rather rough on Lady Rachel.”

  Jerome, fighting hard to extinguish the flames of desire she had kindled in him, did not want to be reminded of her. “I was rougher on Fanny.”

  “She deserved it. Lady Rachel did not,” Ferris said with the frankness of an old and trusted friend.

  Jerome could not argue. He had been positively churlish to Rachel when he had seen her studying him with brazen admiration. He had felt like a damned footman being judged by a wanton mistress of the house.

  He was used to squelching such female presumption with his freezing manner. But frigid hauteur was damned hard to affect when one was dressed in groom’s garb and dripping wet in the bargain.

  He said gruffly, “You saw the bold way she looked me over when I came out of the water.”

  “Aye.” Ferris grinned. “I’d have been most pleased to have her do that to me.”

  The two riders topped the hill rising from the river and passed out of sight of Lady Rachel and her companions. They had ruined Jerome’s plan to bathe in the river and change clothes. He would wait now until he ordered a hot bath at Wingate Hall before he’d struggle to get out of his wet garments.

  Ferris observed, “The more beautiful a woman, the more disdainful and distrustful you are of her.”

  “With good reason!”

  “Aye, but I think you are doing this one an injustice. If Lady Rachel had not thought to knot her petticoats into a rope and throw it to me, we might both be dead.”

  That was true, but Jerome hated to admit anything that would soften his opinion of such an exquisite creature.

  “Did you know that after they pulled me out of the water, she offered me her jacket to warm myself?” Ferris asked. “I don’t know many ladies who would have been as willing to sacrifice their fine garments as she was.”

  Nor did Jerome.

  “Most ladies would have been like Fanny,” Ferris continued. “That one would sooner have let me drown than have a lowly groom touch one of her precious petticoats.”

  Jerome wondered cynically how many men had seen Lady Rachel without her petticoats. Quite a number if she could so quickly shed them publicly as she had. No girl with any claim to propriety would have done so. Nor would an innocent miss have given him the shameless inspection she had. His blood ran hot at the memory.

  “She’s another damned faithless beauty,” he growled aloud, determined to believe it in the hope it would squelch the desire he felt for her.

  To his disgust, it did not.

  “The word beauty does not begin to do Lady Rachel justice,” Ferris said. “She is the most stunning creature I have ever seen.”

  Yes, she was, damn her!

  Ferris said softly, “I know you are convinced all beautiful women are treacherous, but I think Lady Rachel is different.”

  “Not bloody likely,” the duke snapped, still furious at the way his traitorous body had responded to her. It must have been because she took him by surprise.

  It would not happen again.

  Chapter 4

  Rachel, carrying a small leather case, sneaked through the side door of Wingate Hall and ran up the back stairs. When she rushed into her bed-chamber, she found Eleanor Paxton, her best friend and Toby’s sister, waiting in a chintz-covered chair by a window overlooking Wingate Hall’s maze.

  As Rachel closed the door, Eleanor asked, “Where have you been?”

  “Treating one of our tenants’ children who is very ill with an ague.” Rachel set the leather case containing her herbal remedies on the walnut chest of drawers. She had learned the secrets of herbal healing from her late mother. So efficacious were her remedies that she was often called when illness struck.

  “His father stopped me as I was returning from the river and begged me to help the poor little thing.”

  “Why did you not tell someone? No one knew where you were.”

  “Aunt Sophia forbade me to treat sick tenants so I am forced to sneak away to do so.”

  “Forbade you!” Eleanor’s voice quavered with indignation. “How could she? They obviously depend on your healing skill.”

  “As if Sophia would care about that! She says a lady does not demean herself by tending to the ills of the lower orders.”

  “But you and your mother before you
have been doing that for years,” Eleanor cried. “What will they do without you?”

  And what would Rachel do without them? She loved treating them. It made her life so much more satisfying than empty days devoted to needlepoint and gossip.

  “How is the sick child now?” Eleanor asked.

  “I was able to bring down his fever.” Rachel hastily stripped off the jacket of her violet riding habit, then stepped out of its skirt, revealing her white shift beneath. When she had learned how sick the child was, she had not taken the time to replace the petticoats that she had ruined earlier. She had stopped at Wingate Hall only long enough to get her case of remedies before setting out for the tenant’s cottage.

  “I admire your courage,” Eleanor said. “I could not expose myself to disease to help people who are not even my family.”

  But to Rachel, the tenants she helped were all part of Wingate Hall’s family and, as such, their wellbeing was the responsibility of the lord and lady of the manor. It had been the philosophy her parents had believed and practiced.

  She fumbled with the buttons of her violet habit-shirt. “Why is it I am all fingers when I try to hurry? I dare not be late for dinner or Aunt Sophia will want to know why.”

  “Tell her you were waiting for me,” Eleanor said. “Besides we will be downstairs before Fanny. The way she is fussing over her toilet she will be another hour yet. One would think she was going to the king’s ball tonight.”

  “Why the fuss?” Rachel shed her blouse and hurried to the small washstand. She would have loved a hot bath, but there was no time. Instead she poured water from the pitcher into the basin.

  “Fanny intends to become the Duchess of Westleigh.”

  Rachel was so shocked that her voice came out in a squeak. “But she is betrothed to my brother!”

  “She does not think Stephen will return,” Eleanor said gently. “It has been a year since he disappeared.”

  “I know, but I cannot give up hope that he is still alive.” A lump rose in Rachel’s throat. She loved her charming brother dearly, even though his negligent, irresponsible ways sometimes exasperated her.

  “Did you wonder why Fanny suddenly paid this surprise visit to Wingate Hall when she dislikes Yorkshire?”

  “Yes, and Aunt Sophia was livid when Fanny turned up here, uninvited and unexpected. Fanny told her she came because she missed Stephen so, and she felt closer to him here.”

  “She came because she heard that Westleigh would be here,” Eleanor said. “She has set her cap for him.”

  “How can she do that to poor Stephen?” Rachel demanded, much distressed by Fanny’s fickleness. She pulled out a hooped underpetticoat from her clothes press. As she donned it she said, “I am certain that my brother is alive and will return some day.”

  “Fanny does not share your conviction, and she is determined to snare another impressive title as quickly as possible.” Eleanor, mimicking Fanny’s wispy voice, quoted, “‘Westleigh’s is one of the oldest and most illustrious dukedoms in the kingdom.”

  “You sound just like her,” Rachel said, extracting a mustard-coloured overgown and brown underdress from the clothes press.

  “Fanny is a fool to think that she can snare Westleigh. Every beautiful woman in London has tried to do so, and he has ignored them all. ‘Tis said he is so haughty that he does not think any woman worthy of him.”

  “He sounds as arrogant and condescending as Stephen said he was.” Rachel pulled on the brown underdress. “I own I do not look forward to meeting him. Has no woman ever caught his fancy?”

  “He was betrothed once, years ago, to Cleopatra Macklin who was said to be the greatest beauty of the age, but he jilted her.”

  “Jilted her?” Rachel echoed, shocked. “But a gentleman does not—”

  Eleanor said dryly, “Westleigh is not a gentleman, he is a duke.”

  Rachel had finished dressing. Her mustard overdress, a short silk sacque, fell in voluminous pleats from a round neck to her hips. The floor-length undergown was also heavily pleated.

  “Do you truly intend to wear that to dinner?” Eleanor asked. “I swear it is the most unflattering gown you have ever owned.”

  “That is why I chose it,” Rachel confessed. “I want to look as ugly as I can to Lord Felix.”

  Eleanor burst out laughing. “You could not look ugly no matter how hard you tried.”

  “I must find a way to discourage Felix’s suit.” The thought of the mincing fop made Rachel cringe. “I will not marry him.”

  Eleanor sobered. “You will have no choice if your guardian agrees to it,” she warned. “Half the wives in London society would not be married to their husbands if they had their choice. A girl must accept the husband her family chooses for her.”

  “I would rather die than marry Lord Felix!” Rachel cried passionately. She began brushing her long, ebony hair vigorously in her frustration. “Oh, Eleanor, what am I to do? Is there no way that I can escape him?”

  “One. Find another man to marry who rivals Felix in wealth and social status. Then your aunt cannot object to your marrying him instead of Felix.”

  “But hardly any men surpass...” Rachel’s voice faded away in despair.

  “I know,” Eleanor said grimly. “The Duke of Westleigh is one of the few. Perhaps you should try to fix his interest.”

  Rachel was appalled. She wanted nothing to do with a man so arrogant that even her heedless brother Stephen was affronted, a man who thought no woman good enough for him and cared so little for others that he would jilt his betrothed.

  Her animosity did not extend, though, to the haughty duke’s groom. Try as she might, Rachel had not been able to banish that maddening man from her mind all afternoon. Thinking about him now brought a rosy heat to her cheeks. “I pray Fanny does not carry out her threat to have Westleigh’s groom dismissed.”

  “That is exactly what she intends to do. She means to make a great issue of his behaviour when she is introduced to the duke.” Once again, Eleanor mimicked Fanny’s voice. “‘A man of Westleigh’s consequence cannot permit such a groom to remain in his employ. I shall insist that the duke discharge the insolent, rude oaf without a character.’”

  Rachel gasped in dismay. “But without that, he will never obtain another position.”

  “That is what Fanny wants. She says it will teach him the folly of being rude to his betters.”

  “He was no ruder than Fanny was!” Nor was he an oaf. His speech had been more grammatical and well-modulated than that of some gentlemen Rachel knew. But she could not deny that he had been impertinent. Her cheeks warmed again as she remembered the way he had looked at her.

  To think that only moments before Rachel had seen him, she had despaired that any man could make her heart flutter. Her prayer to meet one who did had been answered with astonishing promptitude but with a singularly inappropriate marital prospect for the Earl of Arlington’s sister.

  Rachel sighed. Why did he have to be a groom? Fate could be tantalizingly perverse at times. Groom or not, he was vastly superior to Lord Felix, the Marquess of Caldham’s son.

  I would sooner marry a stable hand.

  Her lips twisted in a wry smile as she recalled her angry statement to Sophia. What a firestorm of shock and outrage Rachel would unleash were she to announce she preferred a groom to a marquess’s son. She would be considered ready for Bedlam.

  But the groom’s courage and willingness to risk his own life to save his companion meant far more to Rachel than his station in life.

  Although he had been disconcertingly blunt for a servant, she admired a man who did not fear to say what he thought. But he would pay dearly for it if Fanny persuaded the duke to discharge him without a character reference.

  Absently, Rachel pulled a fan from her chest of drawers.

  She would not, could not, let Fanny destroy him like that, especially after he had been so courageous in rescuing his companion.

  Eleanor exclaimed, “Oh, dear, I forgot my f
an. I must run back to my room for it. I will be right back.”

  Rachel nodded absently, her mind still preoccupied with the problem of how to save the groom from Fanny’s vengeance.

  The Duke of Westleigh must be made to understand how brave his groom had been. Rachel must talk to his grace before Fanny could spill her venom in his ear. Once they were in the drawing room, though, Rachel might not have that opportunity. She should try to see him now before he went down to dinner.

  Wasting no time in contemplating her action, Rachel impulsively hurried to the apartment that had been assigned to the duke and knocked on the door before she lost her courage.

  A tall, angular man in a fashionably cut black coat over white waistcoat and black breeches opened the door. His clothes were impeccable, though surprisingly plain and sombre for a man of the duke’s rank. Rachel wondered whether he was in mourning.

  She looked at his long, thin face, and her heart sank at its supercilious expression. He had the look of a man whose heart, if he even had one, had shrivelled long ago. No wonder Stephen hated him.

  He raised one haughty eyebrow in silent inquiry.

  “Your Grace, I have come—”

  “I am not his grace,” he interjected coldly. “I am his valet.”

  Rachel’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment. Sweet heaven, if his valet was as overbearing as this, her courage faltered at what the duke himself must be like.

  She wanted to turn and flee. Then she thought of what would happen to the poor groom after Fanny had poisoned the duke’s mind against him. Rachel held her ground. The groom had been brave and so would she.

  “Please, I must see the duke.”

  She was shocked at the contempt for her that curled the valet’s lips. Rachel had no idea what she had done to deserve it.

  “That is impossible. His Grace—”

  “Let her in, Peters; then leave us,” a resonant voice within the room ordered. It sounded vaguely familiar but Rachel was too embarrassed by the realization that Westleigh must have overheard her mistake his valet for him to refine upon it. A man of the duke’s arrogance would consider it an unforgivable insult.