A Noble Man

by Anne Ashley

  "Perhaps she's still in mourning, dear," her ladyship suggested, memory stirring. "I believe someone did mention that she's a widow."

  "Perhaps she is," Sophia conceded, but remained doubtful. "It wouldn't surprise me, though, if she had never been married at all. She wouldn't be the first female to feign the status of a married woman. Our very own housekeeper does precisely that."

  "Very true," her ladyship concurred. "I should imagine high-ranking female servants feel that adopting the status of a married woman adds to their respectability."

  "Just as dressmakers believe that pretending to be French will ensure their success."

  "Are you implying that you suspect Madame Felice is not a Frenchwoman, dear?"

  Turning her head a little to one side, Sophia considered this. "I'm not certain. That pretty accent of hers sounds genuine enough."

  "Well, you were certainly granted ample opportunity to form an opinion. You were in the fitting-room quite some considerable time," her ladyship remarked. "I trust there are not too many alterations needing to be made to your new habit."

  "No, just a slight adjustment to the skirt. Madame Felice promised faithfully before I left her that she would have it delivered to the house the day after tomorrow." •

  "That must please you. I know how much you have been longing to ride since our arrival in town."

  "The prospect of doing so has suddenly lost much of its appeal," Sophia was not slow to admit, realising that her mother could not have heard the news. "Clem is leaving us. Which means, of course, that until a replacement can be found I shall be forced to suffer Trapp's presence. And as we both know, Trapp is unfailingly loyal to the head of the family. Everything I say and do will be reported straight back to Papa."

  The Countess could not forbear a smile at the underlying note of pique in her daughter's voice, and turned her head momentarily to stare out of the window.

  Like her husband, she too had not been slow to notice that fewer personable gentlemen were paying calls to the house these days, though she could hardly say this had come as any great surprise. She had had a fairly shrewd idea who had been behind those foolish rumours which had circulated on the evening of their very own ball, but which, thankfully, now were dying a natural death. She had noticed, too, during the subsequent days that her daughter's choice of dancing partners had undergone something of a change. There was still a smattering of eligible young men among the favoured few, but these, the Countess strongly suspected, were gentlemen who were not quite ready yet to exchange bachelorhood for wedded bliss.

  More amused than annoyed by these rather childish tactics, her ladyship had decided to keep her own counsel, and not take her daughter to task over the mischievous stratagems that she had employed to keep any eligible parti at bay, but could not resist saying now, "But, my dear, I'm certain that you would never do or say anything that might annoy your dear papa," and then found it was as much as she could do to stop herself laughing outright when Sophia turned to stare resolutely out of the window.

  Three days later a message was sent to the stables informing Trapp that Lady Sophia wished her horse to be saddled and brought round from the mews. The head groom received these instructions with mixed feelings: on the one hand he was pleased to learn that Lady Sophia's frisky filly would be receiving some regular exercise at last— she was always far easier to handle when she had been out for an airing; on the other hand, though, he wasn't at all easy in his mind over entrusting the care of the Earl's precious daughter to a virtual stranger. He frowned as he stared at the broad, straight back of his underling, busily engaged in grooming one of his lordship's fine carriage horses, and wondered anew just what to make of Master Benjamin Rudgely.

  Trapp himself would have been the first to admit that he could be a hard taskmaster, quick to rebuke, slow to praise. The trouble was, though, he could find no fault with his new subordinate. Master Rudgely had proved to be surprisingly diligent, not once cutting corners in order to get his work over and done with quickly. His handling of horses was a joy to behold, and he tooled the master's town carriage with effortless ease. He had no fault to find with the young man's personal habits either, which had come as something of a relief as they shared the room above the stables, so Trapp could not quite understand why he should continue to have this niggling little doubt in the back of his mind about young Ben.

  He scratched his grizzled hair, wondering whether he wasn't just a mite too cynical, just too suspicious of his fellow man. Until his subordinate betrayed the fact that he couldn't be trusted, he ought to be given the benefit of the doubt.

  "You can stop what you're doing, lad, and saddle Lady Sophia's filly. The young mistress wishes to ride this morning," he announced, and didn't notice a pair of blue eyes suddenly flicker with joyful expectation. Which was perhaps just as well, because he would certainly have had second thoughts about allowing the handsome groom to accompany the young mistress out on her ride.

  "Now, lad, I want you to listen to what I 'ave to say," he went on, sitting himself on one of the stools while momentarily pondering over how best to broach the topic of the young mistress's occasionally wayward behaviour. "I want you to take excellent care of 'er, see. A firm but gentle hand on the reins is what's needed. The master's right fond of 'er, and he wouldn't be best pleased if she came to any harm. So you keep a watchful eye, understand? She can be a mite 'eadstrong on occasions."

  There was a suspicion of a twitch at the corner of the younger man's mouth. "I know that, Mr Trapp. I've handled her often enough during the three days I've been here."

  "Eh?" The head groom was startled for a moment, then enlightenment dawned. "I ain't talking about the filly, you nincompoop!" he snapped testily. "I knows you can 'andle 'er easy enough. It's Miss Sophia that may cause you problems if she 'appens to be in one of 'er troublesome moods."

  The sight of broad shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter did little for Trapp's peace of mind, and once again doubts assailed him. "Now, lad, if you feels you ain't up to the job, then I'd rather you say so now, and I'll go with Lady Sophia m'self."

  "Oh, I'm up to it, right enough," was the prompt response. "I've had some experience of handling wayward females in my time."

  "Aye, I don't doubt that," the older man muttered, as a further worrying possibility suddenly occurred to him, and he stared up in troubled silence, scrutinising the undeniably handsome face beneath the beard. "Just you remember your station, boy, and don't be taking any foolish notions into that head of yours. Miss Sophia's a lady, and you'd best not forget it."

  There was a further moment's silence, then, "I give you my solemn word that I shall not get ideas above my station, Mr Trapp. I shall treat Lady Sophia just as though she were...my very own sister whenever I accompany her out for a ride."

  "Oh, you will, will you?" The head groom was not totally reassured and betrayed this fact by a suspicious frown. "I can't recall your making mention of any sister."

  "Possibly not, but I have one all the same. I've a brother too, as it happens. I was staying with him here in London before I came to you."

  "Strikes me, young Ben, there's a great deal I don't know about you." Trapp peered owlishly up at him again. "Why, for instance, did you suddenly take it into your 'ead to leave Jamaica and come back 'ere?"

  The answer came promptly enough. "I'd been out there for five years, and I'd had enough. Homesick, as you might say. Sir Simon Fellows can confirm what I've told you. I can always write to him, and ask him to send a reference to his lordship."

  "Oh, so you can read and write, can you?" Trapp responded, swooping down on this surprising disclosure while at the same time committing the name of Fellows to memory, just in case his lordship should happen to choose at some point in the future to verify Rudgely's bona fides. "And how came you to be so learned, may I ask?"

  The response was not quite so swift in coming this time. "My—er—-old master was keen for me to learn."

  Strangely enough this in no way s
urprised Trapp, for it had been none other than the Earl who had given of his time when out in India to ensure that Trapp had learned to read and write. Something else, however, did occur to him as peculiar, and he wasn't slow to remark upon it. "And, I suppose, it were your old master that got you to talk so genteel."

  Once again there was a suspicion of a twitch at the corners of those perfectly sculptured masculine lips. "I thank you for the compliment, Mr Trapp, but I don't speak that genteel. The old master, though, wouldn't tolerate any cussing when his womenfolk were about, so I suppose I've sort of got out of the habit of using bad words."

  "Well, that ain't no bad thing," the master of the stables responded fair-mindedly. "You'll need to mind your tongue when Miss Sophia's about. She's always had the bad habit of remembering words she should never 'ave heard in the first place." Feeling slightly easier in his mind after the brief talk, Trapp rose to his feet. "Well, we can't stand about chattering all day. You'd best make haste, lad, and saddle those horses, otherwise the young mistress will be waiting for you."

  The new groom was not slow to obey the brusque command, and had just arrived at the front of the house when the door was thrown wide. A moment later Sophia herself came tripping lightly down the steps, only to stop dead in her tracks, a look of total astonishment on her lovely features.

  "Great heavens!" she exclaimed, not attempting to hide her instant recognition. "So you're my new groom!"

  Chapter Four

  For the second time in his life Benedict Risely, Seventh Duke of Sharnbrook, experienced that strange bittersweet longing, that intoxicating mixture of tenderness and desire that began somewhere in the region of his loins and spread rapidly through every part of him, sending his pulse rate soaring and his senses reeling. He wanted nothing more than to take her into his arms, and into his bed, to begin to satisfy this earthy powerful craving, and yet all he could do was touch his floppy, misshapen hat in polite acknowledgement, and cup his hands in order to help her into the saddle.

  As he mounted the bay, and proceeded to follow at a discreet distance, he began to question, yet again, the wisdom of his actions and wonder what madness had possessed him even to contemplate indulging in such an absurd charade. As a groom his contact with this lovely young creature, who had captured his interest like no other woman had succeeded in doing before, would be frustratingly rare: a mere hour every day if he was lucky. However, given what his brother Nicholas had told him was true, would the Duke of Sharnbrook be better placed to win her regard? At least this way, he decided, he might be granted the opportunity to get to know her a little better without any outside interference or pressures from family and friends; would be given the opportunity to make certain himself whether what he had experienced during those memorable moments in Bond Street, and again now, was something rather more meaningful than mere searing physical attraction that would undoubtedly fade in the passage of time.

  He remembered quite clearly that during that tedious sea voyage home he had been granted ample opportunity to think long and hard about the kind of woman he wished to marry. Fortunately the Risely family was a wealthy one, perhaps one of the most affluent in the land. Consequently marriage to an heiress was a consideration which need never weigh with him. His family, of course, would expect him to marry a female of unimpeachable breeding, someone who would know what was expected of her as the Duchess of Sharnbrook, and who would provide him with the sons to carry on the family name.

  He, on the other hand, was looking for something rather more than a high-class brood mare in the female he eventually married. He wanted his Duchess to be a helpmate and friend, someone who would share his joys and sorrows, not merely a beautiful adornment to grace the ancestral home. Could Lady Sophia Cleeve turn out to be this perfect companion, this ideal woman whom he had feared he might never be blessed to find?

  Glancing over her shoulder, the subject of his thoughts raised one slender hand and beckoned imperiously. "Come," she ordered, making the command sound sweetly inviting. "Come and ride beside me. I wish to speak with you."

  Benedict needed no second prompting, and was beside her in a trice, thinking how magnificent she looked in the severely tailored bottle-green habit, with the cascade of delicate lace adorning her neck, and wondering anew if he were nothing more than a besotted fool to be so enraptured by a lovely face.

  "What is your name?"

  "Ben, my lady. Benjamin Rudgely," he answered, repeating the name his resourceful young brother had invented for him.

  "And how came you to seek employment with my family, Benjamin Rudgely?" There was a hint of something that sounded suspiciously like disapproval in her pleasant voice. "Surely Lord Nicholas Risely did not turn you off simply because of that trifling incident in Bond Street the other day?"

  Benedict's mind worked rapidly. Evidently she supposed that he had been Nicholas's servant. How his incorrigible young brother would laugh if he ever discovered that!

  "Lord Nicholas who?" His feigned bewilderment was worthy of a Drury Lane actor.

  "Oh, I see! He just happened along, did he?" Sophia responded, pleased to have this point cleared up. Poor Lord Nicholas had been on the point of plummeting in her estimation. And through no fault of his own either! Her mischievous smile faded as something else rather puzzling occurred to her. "How came you to hear so quickly that we would be requiring the services of a groom?"

  Benedict had decided, when planning this little subterfuge, that the nearer he stuck to the truth when questioned, the easier it would be to maintain his role. It had been a simple matter to persuade his brother's worthy factotum to approach the Earl's groom, and for Figgins to arrange to meet him again at an inn the following evening.

  "I happened to be supping a tankard of ale in a tavern not far from here, and overheard a conversation taking place at the next table between your old groom and some other man." He could sense those green eyes regarding him keenly as he continued to stare straight ahead. "You see, my lady, I have only recently returned to this country, and have been looking for work, so I felt it couldn't do any harm to take advantage of the situation and ask at your father's stables, just in case the groom did accept the offer made to him."

  She appeared to accept this readily enough, and after a moment said, "So, you have been abroad, Ben. What prompted you to return?"

  "My old master's death, my lady." Which was no less than the truth, of course, though he did find it strange referring to his deceased father in that way. He shrugged. "Besides, I'd been away in Jamaica for five years, and I was keen to see my family again."

  "And does your family reside in London?"

  "My brother lives here," Benedict responded, still determined to stick to the truth as far as possible. He cast a fleeting, sideways glance at his companion, noted the intelligence in striking green eyes, and realised he would be foolish to underestimate her.

  He had up until now been very careful to keep his story consistent, but it would not do for him to become over-confident in the role he was playing. Already he had aroused the head groom's suspicions by admitting to the fact that he could read and write, and had foolishly divulged the name of a fellow plantation owner out in Jamaica, but there was little chance of trying to rectify those blunders now. It would not do, however, to drop his guard again, most especially when in this delightful creature's company.

  "You must take the opportunity to visit your brother during the time my family remains in London, Ben," Sophia suggested, after acknowledging the occupants of a passing carriage by raising her crop. "I shall probably ride most days, weather permitting, but I'm certain you can slip away for an hour or so from time to time to visit members of your family, providing Trapp does not object, of course."

  Again she was betraying that sweet, considerate side to her nature. Benedict stared straight ahead, hiding the glint of admiration in his eyes. He had not forgotten that she had been willing to take her share of the blame after that unforgettable encounter in Bond Street. How many other y
oung females of her class would have concerned themselves unduly over the welfare of a being whom they mistook for a mere servant? Not too many, he felt sure.

  "You must not allow our formidable head groom to bully you, Ben," she continued, an easily discernible hint of devilment in her eyes now. "He can be a cross-grained old curmudgeon on occasions. The stable-lads back at Jaffrey House are terrified of him."

  "Jaffrey House?" he echoed. "Is that your country home?"

  Sophia nodded. "The family home in Northamptonshire. My father had it built shortly after his return from India. I and my two younger brothers were born there. It's a lovely place." Her smile was a trifle wistful. "It's a great pity that it isn't the Cleeve family's ancestral home, although it is built on land which was once part of the late Earl's estate."

  Memory stirred, and Benedict vaguely recalled his own father mentioning something about the late Earl committing suicide after ruining himself at the gaming tables.

  "And who owns the ancestral home now?" he asked, hoping that for a mere groom he did not seem too inquisitive. Thankfully, she did not appear to think so, although he did note the sudden look of contempt on her face.

  "The Marquis of Sywell, a detestable creature of low morals and disgusting habits, whose wanton neglect over the years has resulted in Steepwood Abbey deteriorating into almost a ruin. Papa has offered to buy the place on numerous occasions during the past twenty years, but without success. Fortunately, though, he has managed to regain most of the other properties which once belonged to the Cleeve family, including the town residence."